


The Skies Over Manhattan

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Teambuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two master assassins, a demi-god, a super soldier, a man with breathtaking anger management issues and a billionaire in a flying suit.  They're supposed to be on the same team.  A series of adult (as in, grown-up) conversations as the Avengers get to know one another beyond fighting side-by-side.  </p><p>Initially written in early 2013, this story was complete until it was obvious that Coulson Lived -- and then one more conversation was needed.  Chapter 5 crosses over into <em>Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.</em></p><p>ETA:  And in 2016, my friend <b>crazy4orcas</b> made some fanart for the story, as a birthday present. Have another look at it after you read the story ... :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watertower

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn’t supposed to happen, and certainly not this quickly. But I just couldn’t let go of the human aftermath of the Chitauri attack – individual Avengers needing to find their feet, figure out where they fit now. Including with each other. Then Egyptian Princess practically challenged me to “punch up the sadly-lacking CPT America side of things and explore his battered psyche next.” … 
> 
> So here we are. The story fits into the head canon I started with “In the Service” and “Going to Ground”, although it won’t be necessary to have read those (of course I’d love it if you did!). It’s intended to be a series of vignettes about this bunch of misfits -- with a veritable smorgasbord of issues among them – who find themselves thrown together through shared experiences and daunting expectations. And Hawkeye, the non-team player according to Joss Whedon, will be in the middle; after all, no one pays me for this, so I get to do what I want …! 
> 
> The comics have Clint's place in Brooklyn, at Quincey and Tompkins. But I write MCU, so I put him into one of my favourite neighbourhoods in Manhattan -- Lexington Ave in the Twenties. 
> 
> I don’t own a single thing related to the Avengers, except for four plastic Clint and Natasha cups and a Hawkeye action figure (it comes with a fire escape!).

 

 

The majority of the destruction is behind him now; the Chitauri ships hit mostly the skyscrapers and the big glass-and-concrete office towers.  In the part of Manhattan where Steve Rogers now finds himself, the locals have already started to do what New Yorkers do best – kick obstacles out of the way and get on with their lives.  

There is still broken glass glinting on the sidewalks though, even here, catching and reflecting the neon lights.  It’s only been, what, three weeks? 

Seems a lot longer, especially since Steve hasn’t exactly had a lot to do since then; this latest war was over a heck of a lot faster than the first one he was involved in.  Plus, there’s only so many briefings a man -- even one super-enhanced with everything from strength to patience -- can endure, and he’s about seven decades past giving interviews. 

The buildings in this neighbourhood look lived in, slightly run down, _comfortable_.  Steve knows that it’s not close enough to Gramercy Park to attract the high rollers, and even though it’s on the wrong side of the Brooklyn Bridge, Steve feels more at home here than he has since … well, _anytime_ since they pulled him from the ice, actually.  Walking down Lexington Avenue in the twenties is almost like shrugging into an old leather jacket that’s scuffed and soft with wear; his step picks up a little unconscious bounce as he walks. 

There’s a veritable symphony of smells coming out of the restaurants here:  Indian, Korean, Vietnamese food -- you name it, it’s there in the air.  And that Armenian-sounding spice shop at the corner of 28th?  Well...  It’s all different and unusual and amazing, and enough to make a man very, very hungry.  

It’s funny, Steve ponders, how scents more than anything, bring back memories -- or force you to make distinctions.  _His_ New York didn’t smell anything like this.  When he last walked these streets, the most exotic restaurants were places -- usually called _Tony’s_ , he remembers with a grin -- where you could get spaghetti and meatballs.  Then there were those mom-and-pop operations on Delancey, where the women wore black woolen dresses and kerchiefs and you could get a dozen different kinds of pickles and maybe some borsht.  This … _ethnic_ thing, as Stark calls it, is a part of his new world that Steve actually rather likes: all those different smells, food from all over the globe, and people who don’t seem to care so much anymore whether your last name sounds _American_ enough.

 His nostrils flare a little as he sniffs a distinct overlay of Chinese in the air now – peanut oil, Steve has learned that smell is, and barbequed duck.  He must be getting close to his goal.  

He still hasn’t entirely admitted to himself why he’s come here:  the best he’s done so far, is to tell himself that while he likes walking and learning this new-old city with his feet, he’s getting a bit tired of never having a destination.  And for once he actually (sort of) knows someone in one of the neighbourhoods he’s exploring.  

So there it is:  A place to go.  As good a reason as any. 

It is well-known around S.H.I.E.L.D. that Barton prefers his own place to his quarters on the helicarrier (not exactly a social animal, the Hawk), so chances are about fifty-fifty he’ll be here.  Steve figures that this is as good time as any to get to know the man he fought beside (and against), and he settles on that as his second motivation for looking him up:  they’re supposed to be on the same team.  

A team that, according to Nick Fury, ‘Captain America’ is supposed to be leading.  _Right._ (Did anyone think to tell Thor, the god?  Or Tony Stark?) 

The door he wants is almost invisible beside the Chinese take-out place he’s been told to look out for.  The latter is brightly lit, with all the neon charm of a bus terminal, while the entrance to the rest of the building is black and a little foreboding.  It takes all of Steve’s enhanced visual acuity to make out the name plates beside their respective doorbells; five of them bear names he doesn’t recognize; the top one is blank. 

 Not exactly rolling out the red carpet for visitors _and_ as high up as he can get?  Sounds like Hawkeye alright.  Steve decides to take the risk, and hits the button.  

The door alarm is one of those obnoxious things you can hear all the way through the building, but even so, for a minute or two absolutely nothing happens.  Steve rings again, waits for a bit longer, and is just about to turn away (well, at least he _did_ have a place to walk towards for a bit there) when the buzzer goes.  He shrugs away his surprise and pushes the door open. 

The stairs are wooden, well worn and so smooth they’re almost shiny; they creak a little as he puts his weight on them to go up.  And up.  And _up_.  The building is rather narrow, and there’s only one apartment per floor.  Hawkeye, as established by the buzzer hierarchy, lives at the very top. 

A couple of the lights in the staircase are burnt out and it gets darker as Steve goes up.  Strange, foreign-sounding music comes from behind one of the doors.  A sitar?  When he gets to the top floor the door is ajar in something approximating an invitation, and light shines out into the dim hallway. 

The doorframe is adorned with a keypad that Steve immediately recognizes as being S.H.I.E.L.D. issue – he’s got one at his place -- and the door looks newer than the others he’s passed, more … solid.  At least he knows he’s in the right place.  Steve knocks on the open door not entirely sure what to expect; walking unannounced into the private realm of one of the most lethal people on Earth may not be the smartest thing to do, and he’s still not entirely sure why he’s here to begin with. 

But then the gruff voice comes out from somewhere inside, “C’mon in,” or something that can be interpreted as such.  Barton is barefoot and shirtless, dressed only in dark jeans.  His hair is damp and there’s a towel draped over his shoulder; he’s obviously just stepped out of the shower, which would certainly explain his delay in getting the buzzer.  Steve is about to apologize when the archer drops the towel over a chair and pulls on an olive T-shirt with faded lettering on it.  Once it stretches out over his chest, Steve can make out the letters _ISAF_ , whatever that means.  

“Captain?” the Hawk says, in a greeting that is welcoming enough in a neutral way, but with a distinct underlay of _what the fuck_?  “Sorry, wasn’t quite ready for company yet.” 

_Yet?_

 “I was in the neighbourhood,” Steve says, although as explanations or apologies go, it sounds a little lame even to him.  “Thought I’d stop by to say hello.  But if you’re expecting company ...?” 

“Nah, it’s okay, be a while yet,” Barton responds.  _At least he’s not denying it._  

It almost sounds like an invitation to stick around, but when it comes to reading people, Steve has found that he’s lost his compass.  Body language, expressions, things have all changed.  People used to be easier to read; there were once stories in the silences between words, and a raised eyebrow meant surprise.  With someone like Clint Barton, who’s trained not to give anything away unless he wants to, Steve’s frame of reference breaks down entirely.

And so, because the archer is still looking at him as if waiting for an explanation, Steve feels compelled to add, “I don’t know many people in New York … _this_ New York, and you did give me your address – you know, after …”

 Clint gives a small smile then, and nods. 

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

 It’s clear by his tone though that he didn’t exactly expect Steve to actually turn up -- especially not unannounced, almost a month later.  When Clint had mentioned his place on Lex, they’d been at that shawarma joint, ready to keel over with fatigue and trying to figure out where to sleep off the alien hangover.  Barton had mentioned how it was in an area where all the windows had gone thanks to Thor’s lightning strikes, but that people would be welcome to crash there if nothing better came along.  It had struck Steve as a decent thing to do, even if Stark immediately trumped it with an offer of his tower (that no one took him up on). 

“Amazed you remember that.”

Steve shrugs; his muscles and CV system aren’t the only thing that’s been chemically enhanced. He remembers telephone numbers too, even though the number of digits has exploded since the last time he had occasion to call someone.  But Barton’s comment didn’t sound like a _go away,_ or even a _I wish I’d never mentioned it_ , and so Steve decides to stick it out for now, especially since the archer is already moving to close the door behind him.  

Steve doesn’t bother to hide his curiosity as he looks around.  He doesn’t really have any idea what to expect – not only doesn’t he really know Agent Barton all that well, but he hasn’t been in _anyone’s_ private home for seven decades and has really no clue how people live now.  (The sterile, furnished thing S.H.I.E.L.D. has assigned him doesn’t count.) 

Barton’s place is like the man himself, compact and muscular, nothing wasted or extraneous.  It consists of a single room, with a kitchenette in one corner and a door in another, presumably leading to a bathroom; there’s also a door to what looks like a fire escape in the back.  The pine floor is obviously old, but refinished to a sheen; there are no rugs.  (Steve wonders briefly whether S.H.I.E.L.D. sends around security-cleared cleaners when agents are on mission; he can’t quite picture Barton with a mop.)  

At some point Barton must have knocked out the ceiling up to the rafters, giving the place a spacious feeling despite its small footprint; it’d be a broom closet otherwise.  There’s a skylight, and what looks like a platform mounted just under the roof – extra floor space?  Steve has the feeling that in daylight, the place would be quite bright, and is surprised that this fact doesn’t leave him more … surprised. 

The thing that intrigues him, though, is the elaborate security features.  There’s a wall panel with several screens beside the entrance, apparently showing different parts of the building, including the front door and a couple of landings on the fire escape.  He points to the screen that shows the front door. 

“You knew it was me, then?” 

“Yep.  I don’t buzz up just anyone, Captain.” 

Steve decides to take that in the spirit in which it was delivered:  _You’re welcome here -- I could have pretended not to be home_ , and his smile in response is broad and genuine.  Based on the Hawk’s reputation, that comment practically amounts to a red carpet and a handful of rose petals. 

“What if it’s someone you don’t ... want to see?”  

Steve can’t help himself.  The man is, after all, a professional killer, and has probably made a few enemies over the years.  In addition to the obvious spy features, there are a couple of gizmos by the door that don’t look like they’d be operating lighting fixtures.  

“No comment,” Clint grins openly now as his eyes follow Steve’s.  He seems to be enjoying this on some strange level.  “Would have to kill you if I told you.”

 Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Don’t touch _that_ , that’s the solicitors’ chute.  Take you straight to the ‘gators in the sewer.” 

Barton seems to be getting his rumoured -- black, _very_ black -- sense of humour back.  In the short time that Steve has known the man, he’s mostly been pretty grim, but maybe getting turned inside out by a Hitler clone would do that to anyone.  Nonetheless, he retracts his hand from the button in question. 

The Captain knows he’s being watched as he takes in what passes for décor in the Hawk’s hideaway, and so he doesn’t bother to hide what he’s doing.  

“You don’t mind if I look around a little, do you?  I haven’t been in someone’s house since …” his voice peters off.  _1943?_ It doesn’t seem quite right, saying it out loud.

Clint just shrugs a diffident, “Sure, go ahead,” and proceeds to return his towel to the bathroom where it belongs.

 The place has the look of something that’s inhabited (however sporadically) by someone whose taste runs to the minimalist and austere; to Steve, it’s an interesting contrast to the ramshackle look of the rest of the building and it makes him wonder what he would find behind the other doors.  It’s tidy to a fault, with some black-and-white landscape photographs on the high walls, an expensive-looking sound system -- although admittedly, to Steve anything electronic looks expensive – and a corner desk with a computer and some other equipment Steve doesn’t recognize.  Two black couches, one of which must double as a bed, because there isn’t an obvious one in the place. _Unless … that platform in the rafters …?_  

There’s a neat stack of arrows on the coffee table, together with a half-full coffee pot, a fine mechanic’s tool kit, a plastic compartment box with parts, and an assortment of tips.  The archer obviously fletches his arrows himself and has been using his enforced downtime to stock up on those you don’t need an explosives license to procure.  

Apart from the assortment of lethal devices, the most personal touch Steve can see in the place is a wall covered with overflowing bookshelves. 

“You read a lot?” he can’t help but ask.

 Clint shrugs diffidently. 

 “Self-defence,” he says.  “Surrounded by all these smartasses with college degrees and a well-developed sense of superiority.” 

Steve remains silent for a moment, looking thoughtful; the man has a point.  He looks at some of the titles: Marsden’s _Taliban;_ Kleveman’s _The New Great Game: Blood and Oil in Central Asia;_ Dallaire’s _Shake Hands With The Devil._  The nature and purpose of Clint’s reading list is pretty obvious. 

But then … Dostoyevski’s _Brothers Karamazov,_ Tolstoy’s _War and Peace_? 

“Russian novels?”  

Steve doesn’t bother hiding the surprise in his voice.  It’s true he doesn’t really know Clint Barton, but … that? 

“Yeah, well.  Attempt at cultural diversification.  Afraid it didn’t exactly take.  Got me a brownie point or two for trying, though.”  

Steve understands immediately.   _Romanoff._  Hawkeye and the Black Widow are partners, so it stands to reason Barton might want to delve into what makes Russians tick, the same way he seems to be approaching the rest of his job – looking for the big picture.  Whatever it is, it’s obviously all the explanation his host is prepared to give Steve, because he quickly changes the subject. 

“Can I get you a beer?”  Clint hesitates briefly, intense eyes flickering across Captain America’s clean-cut appearance.  “You _do_ drink?” 

Steve is still on his tour, inspecting the sound system now and trying to figure out what all the buttons and levers are for. 

“Sure,” he says over his shoulder.  “I’ll have a beer.” 

Then he stops and turns around to hold Barton’s eyes, which are still on him.  There’s a point that needs to be made here, and the sooner he makes it the better, given his experience with Tony Stark. 

“Everyone seems to think I’m something like … like … do you still call it a _goody two shoes?_   Someone who won’t ever touch alcohol, or say ‘shit’ out loud?  I’m from _Brooklyn_ , for crying out loud, not Utah.”

 Barton barks a short but genuine laugh as he heads for the fridge.

 “My apologies, Captain.  Preconceived notions successfully dispelled.” 

He pulls a couple of cans out of the otherwise empty-looking appliance, and tosses one to his guest.  _Smithwicks_ , it says on the label.  Steve smiles in recognition – he remembers this one from time spent with troops stationed in Britain, although it came in bottles then.  He considers the can for a moment and hesitates, frowning, then casts a quick, inquiring look over at Barton.  The archer turns the top of his can slightly towards Steve, flips up the tab and pulls.  Steve follows suit and gives a small smile of relief when he hears the hiss, then quickly sucks off the foam that threatens to spill out. 

“It’s the little things that get you,” Steve remarks a propos of nothing as his host raises his can in a silent toast.

 “Yeah.  I sure can see how that’s the case,” Clint responds, a brief look of sympathy in his normally intense eyes, and it almost looks to Steve as if he might want to add something else.  But Barton isn’t the most loquacious of individuals, and in any event his silent understanding is enough. 

They drain their beers while Steve scrutinizes Clint’s record collection looking for names he might recognize, not expecting any.  But then … _Charlie Parker!_ He holds the case out to his host, who nods in response.

“Yep.  The sax is a timeless thing.  I’ll play you some Springsteen sometime.”

Steve finds he is surprisingly thirsty and the beer goes down well.  He won’t get drunk – _ever_ \-- thanks to the serum coursing through his veins, but he can sure enjoy the taste.  

“If you’re done looking around inside, Captain, want to take in the view?  Best feature, far as I’m concerned, apart from the endless food supply downstairs.” 

 _View?_   

All Steve can see through the fire escape door is the back of buildings like this one; maybe some of the neighbours have picturesque potted plants on the landings of _their_ fire escapes, but it’s getting too dark to tell and he’s not quite sure whether you could call that kind of thing a “view” anyway.  Barton doesn’t strike him as the kidding type though, and so he just shrugs. 

“Sure.  Mind if I use the bathroom first?”  

Clint has no objections and so Steve is off for his final round of not-so-surreptitious exploration; you can tell a lot from someone’s bathroom.  This one is small but well laid out, with a stacked washer/dryer unit -- one of those twenty-first century things Steve has _really_ come to appreciate -- and a glassed-in shower, no bath.  Steve mentally gives himself a pat on the back when he spots the straight razor. 

What _does_ surprise him, though, is the extensive selection of shampoos on a recessed shelf in the white-tiled shower.  _And conditioner?_ He tries to reassess what he thought he knew about Barton, and fails.  Utterly. 

Which leaves one option:  _Barton is seeing someone._

And a sudden realization:  _Barton is expecting … a woman._

Steve resists the compulsion to blush or clear his throat, and wonders how quickly he can leave without seeming impolite – after all, it was him who called on the archer.  But when he comes out of the bathroom, Clint has already un-padlocked the door that leads out onto the fire escape, opening it to the mild June evening.  

“You’ll need both hands.  If you want another beer, stick it in your pocket.  Oh, nevermind, I've got 'em.”

He sticks two cans into the top of his jeans and punches a few buttons on a keypad before heading out on the narrow landing, jumping up with the grace of a large cat and swinging himself up to the next level. 

“Coming?” Clint asks, and Steve swallows.  The compulsion to get the hell out before Barton’s … company gets there is almost overwhelming, but at the same time he’s intrigued by this alleged _view_ , and Barton doesn’t seem to be in a particular rush to be rid of him.  (There’s also that nagging little voice whispering in Steve’s ear, urging him to hang around to find out what kind of person the Hawk might be involved with.) 

And so he shrugs and steps out the door. 

“I assume if you hadn’t pushed those buttons, we wouldn’t want to be out here right now?” he asks as he follows Clint up. 

“Yep.  Crispy critters,” the archer replies with a feral grin, and Steve really doesn’t know whether to laugh, or shudder.  “Saved my butt at least once, that little feature.” 

They end up on the roof of Clint’s building.  A short balancing act, a couple of jumps and a hand-over-hand climb later, Steve finds himself on a flat rooftop.  Over top looms one of those water towers that, much to his delight, are still dotting the Manhattan skyscape like homemade rocket ships, ready to take off for places both marvelous and obscure. 

And all around them are the outlines and shapes and lights – especially the lights! – of mid-town, topped by the sparkling diadem that is the top of the Chrysler Building.  Steve knows Clint is watching him now, but he still bursts into an involuntary smile at the sights and smells and sounds of the city that they’d put their lives on the line for not so very long ago. 

“Wow,” the Captain stammers, a little overwhelmed.  “Gee whiz, that’s really … _something_.” 

“Yeah,” Clint replies, his voice not quite as gruff as it usually is. “Pretty great, given what I paid for the place, huh?  You’d think they’d charge for a view like this.” 

He tosses Steve one of the beer cans while the Captain is wondering whether the archer is joking again, given what they just had to do to get here.  Doesn’t seem like it, though.  Steve nods, takes the beer and pops the can open like a pro. 

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the endless stream of yellow cabs honking down below, a car alarm going off, the hum of a jet engine banking off from La Guardia.  Eventually, Clint turns to the Captain, although Steve can’t tell whether it’s out of genuine curiosity or because he feels obliged, as the host, to make conversation. 

“Has it changed much?  New York, I mean?” he asks. 

Steve considers the question.  “From up here?  Not so much.  A lot of these buildings are new, but many of them were here already.”  

He points with his chin to the Chrysler Building, the centerpiece of the skyline from here – looking much like it did when he left this city so many years ago, for a different war.  

“That one sure was.  And the water towers, like yours up there.”  

He points up at the moonlit, familiar shape looming overhead.  They lapse back into silence; the next time it’s Steve who breaks it. 

“You managed to get your place fixed up pretty quickly, considering.” 

Clint knows what he is referring to; glaziers rank among the most coveted of creatures in Manhattan right now, and you’d think that a little private flat would rank pretty low on the priority list for places to get fixed up. 

“Fury pulled a string or two,” he says.  “For once, I let him.  Didn’t feel like spending my … probationary period on the helicarrier, frankly.” 

Now that it’s out there and the archer mentioned it first, Steve feels less shy about asking.  Besides, he really needs to know if they’re to do this thing, have this Avengers Initiative – this _team --_ mean something. 

“How long do you think it’ll take?” he asks.  “Before they let you back in the field, I mean?” 

Barton shrugs.  “Couple of weeks now, max.  Less if something comes up and Fury needs a job done.” 

Steve frowns.  The idea that the protocol established for Agent Barton’s rehabilitation could be circumvented strikes him as strange. 

“You think all those … tests they’re putting you through, all those evaluations -- they’re not useful?” 

Clint’s answer is a snort.  “Somebody needs a few boxes ticked, make sure I can be trusted and all that.  But if the shit hits the fan and they decide they need me, they’ll clear me fast enough.” 

Clint turns to Steve, an unreadable expression on his face now. 

“Like you did.” 

And then he adds a single word, but one that Steve knows comes from a place that few people ever get to see, a place very deep down where the real Clint Barton lives.  

“Thanks.” 

For a moment Steve doesn’t really know what to say other than a reflexive, “You’re welcome,” but that seems somewhat inadequate.  He picks his next words carefully.

“We needed you on the team.  And you needed to get back out there, I think.” 

Clint takes a long sip of his beer, nods slowly.  

“Ain’t that the truth,” he says.  “Thanks for giving me the chance, Captain.” 

Something inside Steve cracks a little just then, and he needs to get something straight -- in his own mind if not for Barton’s sake, who seems to have the wrong impression.  The familiar Manhattan skyline, sentinel from his past, spurs him on. 

“You know I’m not really a Captain, don’t you, Barton?” 

Clearly, he has the archer’s full attention now.  

“What do you mean?  You’re …” 

“Captain America, yes, I know.”  Steve gives a laugh that is just this far short of self-contempt. 

“A _marketing strategy_ , you’d call it now.  Moral support for the troops, recruitment, and a walking sales pitch for war bonds, that’s what the title was for.  But I'm not a commissioned officer. Didn't come up through the ranks, never went to officer training.” 

He stares at Clint’s chest now. 

“That t-shirt you’re wearing, that looks military.  What does ISAF stand for?” 

“International Security and Assistance Force,” Clint responds slowly.  “Afghanistan.” 

Steve shrugs.  “See?  You’re more of a soldier than I ever was.  You _served._   How long?” 

“Four years.  But I wasn’t actually with ISAF,” Clint feels compelled to point out. 

“Operation Enduring Freedom, Special Ops.  Bought the shirt at Kandahar Air Field before the end of my tour, since my unit didn’t have any of its own.” 

But whether he served with the outfit whose lettering is on the shirt is hardly the point, and Barton knows it.  

Steve is convinced, moreover, that the archer has also figured out just _why_ the Captain has been wandering the streets of New York, and _why_ he turned up at his door – the door belonging to the one guy among these so-called Avengers who _knows_.  Barton may not be the greatest of team players, and may still be chewing on issues of his own that Steve can’t even begin to comprehend, but he bloody well knows what makes the kind of officer people will follow onto a battlefield. 

Steve almost dreads what might come next, but it _is_ what he came here for, now that he’s decided to be honest with himself.  One of the things, anyway.  And so he just looks at the former soldier, waiting for the verdict.  He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“You know, being an officer, that takes more than going to school and getting a commission.  And you have it, Captain, you have what it takes.  They didn’t just hand it to you with that shield and that funky outfit of yours.  Coulson was right.” 

Steve’s mouth opens in reflexive protest, but Clint doesn’t give him the chance, just waves him off with the hand holding his beer. 

“Save it, Captain.  It was a privilege serving with you.  And you know what?  I’d do it again, anytime.  All you have to do is ask.” 

The archer raises his beer in a smart salute, and there’s really not much left for Steve to do but to follow suit.  And to say the other thing he now knows he came here for. 

“Okay, then.  Glad to hear that.  ‘Cause I’m asking,” he says, holding the archer’s eyes with his own once more.  

Clint cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly. 

“Yeah?”  He shrugs.  “Guess I’m in then.  Whatever _it_ is.  Does Fury know?” 

Steve nods.  

“He’s the one who asked me to make it official, this whole Avengers Initiative thing. As official as it can get, with …” 

“… a bunch of freaks who don’t generally play well with others, and some of whom still have day jobs?  Including with Fury?” 

Steve chuckles, but refuses to confirm or deny the part about the freaks.  As for the day jobs … that’ll be S.H.I.E.L.D.’s and Stark Industries’ problem to sort out.  Not Captain America’s, or the Avengers’.  Luckily, reporting lines don’t seem to be a priority with Agent Barton. 

Clint quirks an eyebrow and gives a half-smile back; together they drain what’s left of their beers.  There really isn’t much more to say. 

“Gimme your can,” Clint says eventually, and Steve hands it over, wondering what he’ll do with it up here.  Barton doesn’t strike him as the kind of guy who leaves garbage lying around.  

Sure enough, the archer crumples both cans up and fires them over the side of the building without looking where they might end up; two rapid-succession clanking sounds suggest that they landed in exactly the same place, among others of their kind.  

“Recycling bin, back alley behind one of the restaurants on Lex,” Clint explains; Steve resists the temptation to look over the edge.  

The return trip is quick and easy, but when the two men get back to the roof across from Clint’s apartment, Steve sees a shadow moving behind the window. 

“Whoa,  Hawkeye,” Steve manages as he stops in his tracks.  “See that?  Someone’s in your place.  What about all that security?” 

“Couldn’t keep _her_ out if I tried.”  Clint replies evenly, but the grin that flashes across his face makes him suddenly look years younger.  He jumps across, hand-over-hands it down the fire escape and lands on the metal grid outside his backdoor.  Over his shoulder he adds, “She’s had my number for years, Captain.” 

Almost as if on cue, a familiar voice reaches Steve’s ears.

“Clint?  I was beginning to wonder whether you’d forgotten I was coming over.” 

Agent Romanoff.  Of _course_ Barton’s partner would have access to his place.  And if it was her he was expecting, no wonder he wasn’t worried about anyone interfering with his evening.  She’s probably come to discuss the mission she’s just been on.  

The Black Widow looks up when they enter, barely raising an eyebrow when she realizes Clint is not alone. 

“Captain,” she acknowledges his existence with a slight dip of her head, before turning her attention to Clint.

“When was the last time you had something in your fridge that wasn’t a six-pack, Barton?”

“Hey.  There’s a thing of Pad Thai in one of the drawers.”

“I meant, something that wasn’t either fossilized or looked like a Long-Haired Blue Tribble.  When was the last time we even had Thai?”

Barton, for his part, seems stumped by her question.

“Ummm ...,“ he fails to articulate.

“Right.  Before you went to New Mexico.  The _first_ time.  And that was in _March._ Whatever happened to, I don’t know, keeping non-petrified, edible food around?  Some eggs?  A pint of milk?  A hunk of cheese?”

“I don’t cook.  Why I live on top of a Chinese take-out.  All you can eat, 24/7.  Bliss in a cardboard box.  Chang even delivers.”

Clint doesn’t sound in the least defensive.  In fact, he sounds downright triumphant, like he’s just made an important point.  Natasha sighs, and gives Steve a look of exasperation that she evidently expects him to share, even though he hasn’t been a part of this conversation.  She turns her green eyes back on her primary target.

“You don’t cook a hunk of cheese, Clinton Francis Barton.  You peel back the cellophane, cut off a piece, stick it in your mouth.  With or without a cracker underneath.  Plus, it isn’t loaded with MSG.” 

The archer just shrugs, and Steve knows without any doubt that this is a discussion that has been going on for years.  It’s been a long time since he’s had that kind of thing -- not since … Bucky.  Yes, Bucky Barnes …  He tries to ignore the twinge of envy as the exchange of fire in the kitchenette continues.

“I’ve got wine.  In the fridge door.  That count?” 

“Don’t change the subject.”

 “I’m not.  You said all I ever have is six-packs.  Proving you wrong, I am.  Chablis.  Want some?” 

“You have _Chablis_?  When all you ever eat up here is Chinese?” 

“I sometimes eat Thai.  Just not very often.” 

And then something happens, something Steve did not expect at all. The Black Widow steps up to Barton, invading his personal space without so much as a by-your-leave, wraps her arms around his neck and curls her fingers into his short hair. 

“Idiot,” she says and pulls his head down for a kiss, with just the most fleeting of glances at Steve where he stands rooted to the ground.  

A surprised look crosses Clint’s face, almost as if he hadn’t expected her to display this kind of affection in front of a third party, but it only lasts a fraction of a second.  He smiles down at her, pulls her close and whispers something that might or might not have been a “Glad you’re back, too.”  

Now, Steve is not naïve when it comes to picking up cues (despite what everybody seems to think), and he almost smacks himself in the forehead for not having figured it out sooner. 

“Shampoo,” he manages to choke out.

The two agents, briefly oblivious to anything but each other, remember his presence and break apart.  Natasha turns in the arms that are still circling her waist and leans into Clint, who drops his face into her hair and takes a deep breath.  It’s a small, intimate gesture that rattles Steve more than the kiss he has just witnessed. 

“Shampoo?”  Clint asks, obviously not finding anything amiss with the hair his mouth is still buried in.  The tiniest of smiles crosses his lips, and his arms tighten around Natasha’s waist for a second before he lets go and takes a step back, obviously aware of Steve’s discomfort. 

“That’s _Agent Romanoff’s_ shampoo.  In _your_ shower, Barton.” 

The archer lets out a short laugh and exchanges a quick look with Roman … _Natasha._   

“No shit, Sherlock,” he says drily.  “Congratulations for figuring it out.”

 “Obviously,” she frowns.  “You don’t expect me to use the cheap stuff Barton buys in that Vietnamese grocery, do you?” 

Steve suddenly feels very, very awkward, and very … superfluous.  

“I should go,” he says, turning towards the door.  “Leave you … two … to your evening.  Especially since … Agent Romanoff just got back from mission.” 

Clint and Natasha exchange a quick glance, then she speaks up. 

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?  Chinese take-out.  It’s actually pretty good.  I hear we have a decent Chablis to go with it.”  

Natasha sounds like she means it, and if Barton is taken aback by her inviting someone for dinner at _his_ place, he sure doesn’t show it.  In fact, he gives his assent with a decisive nod, before adding with his usual precision, “One of us will have to use a water glass though.”

Steve looks from one to the other and he suddenly realizes that, although Hawkeye and the Black Widow have been partners for a long time, what he’s just seen passing between them is still new, still raw, and still … fragile.  And that despite this, they have dropped their guard – for him.  

It’s a thank you, and a payback.  Barton seals it. 

“Got anything better to do, Rogers?” he drawls, cocking an eyebrow, knowing bloody well that the answer is ‘no’.  

Steve looks from one to the other, these people he’d never met until a few short weeks ago – _his_ partners now, too.  And he knows one thing with absolute certainty:  _Everything_ is new now _._   _Every last damn thing_ , and suddenly, that doesn’t seem so bad.  Beginnings are generally considered something good.  

He hesitates, but only for a fraction, and really only for show. 

“Guess not,” Captain America says with a grin that could light up the Eastern Seaboard.  

“Besides, I’ve never had Chinese.”

 


	2. Penthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: Apologies to subscribers for the delay in getting this up – a perfect storm of RL, obligations to another fandom, and competing plot bunnies. But here it finally is: another slice of life of ‘New York in the aftermath’. In case bits of this sound familiar to some of you, a short excerpt (in an earlier iteration) was posted in a comment at be_compromised.
> 
> Thanks to Runawaymetaphor for her usual candour in administering the “does it suck” test, and to Shenshen77 for her eagle eye in spotting stuff I should have seen. You made this chapter better; all remaining flaws are mine.
> 
> PS: _Clint in Armani_ needs a tag.

 

“So tell me.  _Why_ are you insisting on dragging me to this thing again?” 

Natasha lets out a deep breath.  Her partner is renowned around S.H.I.E.L.D. for his epic ability to resist things he doesn’t want to do, but this isn’t professional.  This is … personal.  Something _she_ wants and _he_ doesn’t.  (As to _why_ she wants it, she hasn’t really come up with a cogent answer yet, and so his insistent query is not exactly welcome.) 

But their partnership has undergone a certain evolution, they’re a couple now, and maybe they should be doing some things a bit differently now.  Things she should be able to ask for and he should say yes to, just … _because_.  

Relationships are all about _compromise_ , supposedly.  

She knows she shouldn’t turn her professional skills on him – he knows her tricks as well as anyone anyway, but more importantly, Clint _is_ her partner, not her mark.  But she’s been reading a lot of books and magazines about this, and this seems as good a time as any to put a few theories to the test.  Not that she’d tell him that, mind you -- there are some secrets of Natasha’s that the Black Widow is perfectly happy to help her keep.  Neither is particularly keen on telling Hawkeye that he’s about to become part of a social experiment.  

And so -- although she should know better -- she tries a minor distracting flare. 

“It’s a party, Clint.  Housewarming, to celebrate the fixing of Stark Tower.” 

“I know.  I got the e-vite, too.  I said no.  _Politely_.  You haven’t answered my question.” 

Right.  Eyes on the prize, that’s Hawkeye.  Time to up the ante.  ‘ _Let him know he’s doing it for you_ , the book said.  _He will want to please you.’_  

“I owe Pepper.  You know, that whole Nathalie Rushman thing.  She thought we were friends.”  

Clint gives her one of those intense stares, like he’s assessing the wind speed, gravitational pull and the curvature of the earth against the distance to her left eye socket.  It’s not a reassuring look. 

“And this involves _me_ why, exactly?  I’m a busy guy.” 

That’s bullshit of course, and they both know it – he still hasn’t been cleared for fieldwork by S.H.I.E.L.D., and world saving doesn’t seem to be a full-time occupation.  (Thank goodness.)  Unlike the work they do for S.H.I.E.L.D., which focuses on prevention, the Avengers Initiative is almost by definition concerned with things that happen only _after_ the serious shit hits the fan.  And right now those fans are on idle; whatever über-villains there are must be on summer sabbatical. 

Natasha lets out a deep breath and resorts to flattery.  (‘ _If he feels good about himself, he will feel good about your relationship_.’) 

“I think she really wants to meet you.  You’ve seen the e-vite, you know they include dates.  And for better or worse, when it comes to date prospects for me, you’re kind of it.  So all things considered – you’ve basically been invited twice.” 

His refusal to dial down the balefulness in his eyes confirms what she should have known:  Clint Barton is as immune to flattery as he is to death threats.  Or maybe she’s just not very good at it when it’s not about a mark? 

She unleashes a new weapon, this one straight from _The Rules of Dating_.  

“Unless you want me to ask Steve?”  

“Go ahead.  He won’t say no to you.” 

Of course, she should have known jealousy won’t do the trick.  They were partners long before they become lovers, and the trust they share has been paid for in blood.  So the next thing she says actually comes from a different place, one that surprises her at first – but then, not really.  They’ve talked about this. 

“Truth is, Clint, you need to get out more, spend some time with people.  It doesn’t do you any good, sitting here, brooding until the Council gets off its ass and lets you go back to work.” 

Clint gives her a dark look that would have sent any other person of their mutual acquaintance scurrying for cover. 

“I’m not brooding.  I’m in a legitimately shitty mood.  It’s been five fucking weeks.  I need a goddamn mission, not a chi-chi _soir_ _ée_ with nitwits who wear shoes that cost more than my car, and who’ll spend the evening air-kissing confirmed assholes just so they can get their photo on twitter.” 

“Pepper isn’t like that.  Also, no media.  And maybe, if someone behaves like that, Tony will let you kill them.” 

He snorts (at least his sense of humour is still alive, even if it’s somewhat buried right now), while Natasha sighs inwardly.  She’s trying to do this right, she really is, but he’s not exactly helping.  Clint Barton is not a social animal on his best days, a pain in the ass on his worst, and an acquired taste at any time.  Right now, she is wondering whether she is doing the smart thing, trying to drag him kicking and screaming into a place where he obviously doesn’t want to be:  _Normal._

But she also knows that she really wants him to come with her, for some reason that she’s not entirely sure of herself and doesn’t particularly want to examine too closely.  And if that makes her sound like she’s begging, so be it. 

“It’s not a _soir_ _ée_ , Clint.  It’s drinks among … a dozen or so people, max.  You’ll know some of the people there, like Steve and Tony.  You can even wear jeans.  Although for the record, you _do_ clean up nicely when you deign to put in the effort.  Downright sexy.” 

If that was meant as enticement, it backfires rather spectacularly.  He gloms on to the bit of her speech that offers the easiest target. 

“A dozen or so?  Great.  Almost undiluted Tony _Look-at-Me_ Stark.  My favourite thing.” 

“Okay – here’s the deal.  Let’s compromise.  You come to the party with me, and I won’t complain about your having started brooding again.  Besides, it’s just drinks.  Two hours, tops.” 

“Just drinks?”  As far as Clint is concerned, she’s put her finger on the problem.  “People like us don’t do _just drinks_ , Tasha.  When we go to a function, it’s for a purpose.  To take out a mark, or walk off with some useful intel.  Or both.  We … _I_ … don’t just stand around with a glass of wine and make _small talk_.” 

Coming out of Clint’s mouth, the word _small talk_ sounds like something slimy, with retractable fangs and a frilly dress.  He gives her a baleful blue-green stare, fuelled by twenty-four-karats worth of Barton pigheadedness. 

Natasha holds his eyes with hers.  _Is this what lovers’ quarrels are about?_   Normal couples have them; she’s read about them in those books, and some magazines.  But this can’t possibly be it.  Uh-uh.  She and Clint aren’t … they don’t do … _normal._  

The irony that this is precisely what she’s been trying to achieve – and what all that means in the context of socializing with super soldiers and men in iron suits -- hits her in the face with the power of Thor’s hammer.  

 _Damn._   Time to re-evaluate.  Why exactly is it that _she_ said yes to Pepper’s invitation?  The best thing she can come up with is the truth:  _It’s the first time anyone has ever bothered to ask._ But she doesn’t really want to analyze what this means, why it matters, or why it led her to say ‘yes.’  Not to mention wanting to drag Clint into it.  Nope.  The Black Widow is _not_ insecure, and she certainly does _not_ require back-up. 

Oh, who is she kidding.  She _wants_ him there.  For her own sake and his.  Time to turn the screws.  

“I thought relationships were about the occasional compromise.  But fine.  I’ll go alone.  You stay here and feel sorry for yourself, and fletch some more arrows.  I’ll tell Pepper my _date_ developed a sudden case of shingles and hope Steve didn’t bring someone.  Maybe we can get our picture on twitter and start some rumours.” 

Clint broods for a minute, looking for an out -- and wondering just how badly he should be looking for it.  Aren’t they supposed to be doing the couple thing now?  

Unlike Natasha, he hasn’t consulted any manuals on how to conduct a relationship, but he does remember the arguments with Bobbi, and everyone knows how well _that_ ended up.  Hell, the list of things he (allegedly) fucked up in that particular context would fill an entire USB stick.  As it happens, he’s been scrolling through it lately -- while fletching arrows actually -- and has sworn to himself that he could do better … _would_ do better this time around.  Learn by negative example, and all that. 

Talk about _compromised_. 

Natasha hasn’t moved; she is still staring at him, scanning his face for signs that he might crack.  He knows that she can hold that kind of posture for hours, just like he can his bow.  And that he’ll buckle before she does.  He always does.  Isn’t that how this whole thing between them got started, him not being able to go for the kill? 

_Dammit._

If he has to compromise, Clint figures, the best way to save at least some face is to punch its teeth in.   _Arrows_.  She mentioned arrows. 

“Guess I could talk to Stark about some arrow designs I’ve been thinking about.” 

He watches her relax a fraction out of the corner of his eyes.  

“And if Steve and Fury want all of us to play nice together, I suppose I might as well use this _thing_ to gather my own intel on Stark.  So we both know what we’re getting into with him.  Don’t really know the guy.  You do; I don’t.” 

If Natasha has noticed the ‘ _we’_ that crept into this slightly rambling speech, she doesn’t give any sign of it.  Instead, she gives him a small but genuine smile, the kind that very few people get to see.  Somehow she manages to keep any hint of triumph out of it.  

 _Take the win, don’t gloat, move on to the next target_.  

But, because she’s read somewhere that flexibility deserves a reward and that positive reinforcement is a good thing, she goes up to him and gives him a long, deep kiss -- before moving in for the kill. 

“Oh, Clint?  I lied about the jeans.  Wear the black pants and that black Armani jacket I got you, you know, for that trafficking job in Hamburg?  White or black t-shirt – I don’t care.  You can pick.” 

Clint just rolls his eyes and sighs.  

“Who or what the hell is Armani?”

 

…..

 

The door to the front lobby opens as soon as they step up to it; JARVIS welcomes them to the lobby by name. 

“ _Agents Romanoff and Barton.  Welcome to Avengers’ Tower_.” 

Clint raises an eyebrow at Natasha, mouthing the words, _Avengers’ Tower??_   before clearing his throat and growling at the ceiling, “So much for undercover ops in your place, eh, Stark?” 

The cameras are not exactly hard to spot if you know what you’re looking for, including the ones masquerading as pot lights.  Clint shoots quick air arrows at each one of them before making the universal _Eyes On You_ sign -- all with his right hand.  (If there’s one thing he won’t do, it’s giving away freebie intel, so what if Stark already knows he’s a southpaw.)

“ _Sir_ …” JARVIS’ slightly appalled voice fills the lobby, “ _no need to take offence_.” 

“None taken,” Clint responds amicably and heads for the elevator door which is opening on its own.  “Just making sure we understand each other, JARVIS. _Tony._ ” 

He casts one last appraising look around.  The last – the only -- time he’s been in this place had been right after the battle of Manhattan, with the amount of glass in his body rivaling that on the lobby floor and his quiver imprinted on his back, ready to send Loki to Valhalla or wherever Norse gods go when they refuse to surrender.  The place has been tidied up since then, of course.  You can practically see yourself in the marble floor and walls, and the Stark Industries logo gleams golden over the bank of elevators.  If anyone has the dough to skip to the head of the cleanup queue, it’s Stark. 

Natasha gives her partner a smack in the arm and rolls her eyes at him as she passes him to get into the elevator.  (She has long since given up telling him that he doesn’t need to hold doors open for her.) 

“What?” he complains half-heartedly.  

“The guy loads up his front lobby with sentient spyware, programs our names and faces into it, tells him to shout them out for the world to hear, and I’m supposed to just smile ‘coz I’m on candid camera?  _You’re_ supposed to be the spy.  Doesn’t that bother you even a little bit?” 

She sighs.  

“Fine, you have a point.  And maybe ‘Avengers Tower’ is a bit … unsubtle, in a _Yes, I am Ironman_ kind of way.  But … let’s just be _us_ tonight, okay?” 

“Right.  Just … us.” 

Clint nods and gives her one of his looks -- the one where he dips his head a little and looks up at her, like a puppy pit bull -- and refrains from pointing out that being _just him_ will always involve addressing problematic shit.  But that’s not a productive line of thought, so instead he searches his memory banks for a personality suitable to making small talk and wearing Armani (he knows bloody well what it is, having spent three weeks in Milan once, but there _are_ points of principle to be made on occasion).  

Natasha, for her part, is avoiding staring at Clint’s chest.  As predicted, he has cleaned up nicely and now his rather distracting pecs are accentuated by the white t-shirt that’s stretched over them (he probably picked it precisely for that reason – _bastard)_ and by the jacket he casually shrugged over top.  By the time she has finished wondering what is more remarkable, how much that spiky hair reflects his personality, how soft it actually is to the touch, or how much she’d like to touch it _right now,_ the elevator door opens and spills them out into Tony and Pepper’s penthouse apartment. 

There’s discreet lighting, discreet décor, discreet music – definitely Pepper’s doing, apart from an odd sculpture in a corner, that looks like a failed attempt to create a functioning warp core.  Barely a dozen people are mingling around the bar and on the terrace, where the floor-to-ceiling windows have been folded back to admit the mild summer evening.  Natasha sees the unmistakable silhouette of Steve Rogers by the window, standing by himself to take in the already lit outline of Manhattan at dusk.  She banishes the thought about what she and Erik Selvig did on that same terrace, as soon as it punches its way into her mind. 

“Looks better than the last time we were here,” Clint whispers in her ear.

The comment is probably supposed to sound nonchalant, but Natasha doesn’t miss the slight catch in his voice, nor the way his eyes are suddenly veiled.  And it suddenly hits her, the reason why he hadn’t wanted to come here, to this place.  Sure enough, his gaze is fixed on the terrace, his memory no doubt drenched in the blue light of the howling gate for which he himself had procured the key.  

But he’s here anyway.  _Because she’d asked_.  

“Clint, I didn’t think …” And then Natasha says two words the Black Widow never would. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He fixes her with a deep gaze, before brushing her forehead with a kiss and briefly allows his calloused fingers to rest on the bare skin of her back.  It’s still something he never quite feels entitled to do, especially in public, but it seems to be the right thing just now.  She doesn’t flinch or pull back; she’s here with him – and because of him.  It cuts both ways, this thing -- and he suspects, always will.  

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think I could deal with it.  Probably about bloody time I stopped hiding, too.  You said we should compromise.  You’re probably right.” 

Of course, JARVIS has warned of their impending arrival and although Stark is nowhere to be seen, Pepper is right there, ready to greet them.  Her eyes go a little wide when she sees the kiss, however fleeting it was, but she wouldn’t be where she is if she were so easily fazed.  

“Natasha,” she says, with one of those bright smiles that can light up Stark Tower without the assistance of an arc reactor, and with just enough emphasis on the “ _asha_ ” part.  “So glad you could come.  What a stunning dress.”   

She steps forward and reaches for Natasha in an impromptu hug.  They’ve defeated two megalomaniacal inventors together and prevented the meltdown of a third; as far as Pepper is concerned, that creates a bond of sisterhood that outweighs the deceptions of the former Nathalie Rushman. 

“Pepper,” Natasha hugs her back, composed as ever and not showing a smidgeon of surprise at her hostess’ enthusiastic welcome.  “Good to see you again.  I think you have met my … partner, Clint Barton?” 

There’s a difference in the way she says that -- ‘my partner’ -- and for a second Clint feels his breath stuck his chest.  But now is not the time to reflect on that, and he files the thought for future examination. 

“Agent Barton,” Pepper says, turning to Clint with a warm smile.  “I … almost didn’t recognize you.  I didn’t think you were coming.  What a pleasant surprise, though; I’d been so hoping to meet you.  We didn’t really get the chance to talk the last time.” 

 _No shit._   The last (and only) time Clint had seen the CEO of Stark Industries, she’d been pretty much welded to Ironman; he’s surprised that she noticed him at all. 

“My apologies,” he says, inclining his head ever so slightly.  “I know I said ‘no’ initially, but Natasha helped me change my mind _._  And since you had invited her to bring a guest … well, we thought it would be okay if I still came.” 

He lets her assure him that he is _more_ than welcome, before making a sweeping motion with his right hand and allowing a charming sparkle to light up his eyes. 

“Nice place you have here.  _Fabulous_ view.  Didn’t get the chance to take it all in the last time I was here.  Although I think we were all a little preoccupied.”  

But before he can be subjected to any more small talk he makes his excuses. 

“I’ll leave you two gorgeous ladies to catch up.  I think I see someone who could use company.  I’m sure we’ll get the chance to talk later.” 

And with that, Clint gives Natasha a brief air kiss on the cheek and makes a beeline for the stainless steel dividing line between the room and the terrace, where Steve Rogers stands by himself, arms crossed, looking out over the city as if he wishes he were somewhere else.  Clint scans the place rapidly and thoroughly as he goes, taking note of possible entrance and exit points and other features of interest.  With the building shaped like a melted teapot and the scaffolding still up, getting out won’t be hard even without grappling arrows. 

Pepper watches him as he stalks across the floor -- like a prowling cat, all coiled power and lethal grace -- before turning back to Natasha. 

“Well,” she manages.  “That was … a surprise.” 

Natasha raises her eyebrows quizzically.  “What?  That he turned up?  Or that I brought him as my date?” 

Pepper, never one to beat around the bush, gets straight to the point.  “Both, actually.  I had no idea – Phil never mentioned … well, he _is_ your date, right?  As in, _date_ -date?” 

Natasha just nods, trying to suppress an unidentifiable tingle at the thought.  

“We’re still getting used to the idea.  It’s … a work in progress.” 

Pepper gives her that _I know exactly what you’re talking about_ look.  But then she adds, “But also … He’s not what I’d been led to expect.  So … smooth.” 

Natasha considers this for a moment before she decides that, having already spent several weeks being misled by a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent under her own roof, Pepper deserves the truth this time.  Besides, Phil trusted her and she’s an invaluable ally -- all that stands between Tony Stark and total anarchic megalomania.  The truth it is. 

“That wasn’t Clint Barton you just met.  That was Grayson Waterston III, I believe.  Counselor at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin.  Or maybe Colin Thomson, heir to North Atlantic off-shore oil interests, with a lucrative sideline in firearms.” 

Understanding dawns in Pepper’s eyes, and a bit of envy. 

“Oh, he has a party mode, does he?  How … _useful_.  I wish Tony could put on ‘agreeable’ as easily as that.  Maybe I could get Clint to give him some lessons.” 

The idea of Hawkeye giving a tutorial on social graces to Ironman hangs in the room for a shining, Dali-esque moment, before Natasha pierces the bubble. 

“Speaking of whom.  Where _is_ Tony?  I only got Clint to come on the promise of a highly technical discussion on arrowheads.  I won’t hear the end of it if that doesn’t happen.” 

Pepper sighs.  “The Tony Stark version of party mode.  Absent.  Invisible.  Probably hiding in his lab.”

But then she brightens, gives Natasha a conspiratorial wink and looks to the ceiling. 

“JARVIS.  Please tell _Mister_ Stark that if he doesn’t get up here in the next five minutes, whatever sex he was hoping to have ever again will be indefinitely postponed.  And I mean, _indefinitely._ ”  

Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, and also tell him Hawkeye wants to talk about arrow designs.” 

She smiles sweetly at Natasha.  

“The carrot and the stick.  Works even on eccentric inventors.  Besides, I always wanted to use that line.  Can I get you a drink?”

 

…..

 

Once he has stepped out onto the terrace, Clint finds his eyes drawn inexorably to a part of the stone floor that has not been fixed.  And it’s not because the renovations haven’t been completed -- like that melted warp core thing, you can just tell that the human-sized, near-crater is personal to Tony Stark.  (The ropes against accidental tripping, on the other hand, are likely pure Pepper Potts.) 

A small, malicious smile curls Clint’s lips as he remembers Loki waking up in that spot, looking at the point of his arrow.  If Stark were here, he’d give him props on the décor. 

Steve seems relieved to see someone he knows.  He gives Clint his best welcoming smile, before helping himself to a drink from the tray of one of those robot-things that are whirring around the floor.  Gin and Tonic; the giveaway is always the lime. 

“You been here long?” Clint asks the Captain, picking a glass of red wine but unlike Steve, refraining from thanking the machine.  

“Long enough to be wanting a drink,” Steve smiles back.  “I hate drinking alone though.” 

He takes a look at what Clint is holding in his hand and raises an eyebrow. 

“I thought you were a beer man.” 

Clint shrugs.  “I am.  But Black Widow made me wear Armani.” 

Steve looks as puzzled as Clint had pretended to be when Natasha made that last push, and so he elaborates, “It’s a fashion thing.  Doesn’t go well with beer _._ Probably should have had a cocktail, but there are limits.” 

Steve nods solemnly, pretending to understand, and resolves to google the name when he gets back to his apartment.  A wonderful thing, Google; Natasha introduced him to it and he’s still grateful.  He could spend hours reading Wikipedia. 

They don’t talk much, both men preferring to sip their drinks in silence.  It’s a tribute to the growing ease between them that Clint has left his suave alter ego behind at the entrance – except for the mandatory optics of the pinot -- and is content to just join Steve in taking in the view.  

The diamond-encrusted skyline is marred by shadows and darkness, gaping wounds left by buildings not yet restored to the light.  But where those holes are there is another thing, too: a dance of lights, pinpoints in some places, streaks and fingers in others, made by dozens of cranes and repair crews that are operating around the clock to cover the scars of the Chitauri war.    

It’s mesmerizing, that dance, and neither Steve nor Clint notice when Pepper Potts materializes beside them on the terrace.  

“Steve.  Glad to see that you finally took a drink.  I was worried about you.  And Clint -- I really _am_ glad you came.  I’ve been wanting to meet you.  I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

As opening gambits go it’s a pretty tired one, but when spoken to a man who has been making his living as an undercover assassin, it acquires a frisson that even Clint Barton can’t ignore.  

His eyes leave the light show and flick a question across to Natasha at Pepper’s comment, but his partner just shrugs.  _Not from me._ Then a second shrug.  _Okay, fine, but not much, and nothing prejudicial._  

“From Phil,” Pepper explains with a small movement of her lips that one would have to stretch considerably in order to call it a smile. 

Steve, who is far more capable of reading undercurrents in personal dynamics than most people will give him credit for – _big plus blonde equals dense, right?_ \-- claps Clint lightly on the shoulder and takes his leave, ostensibly to join Natasha who is headed for the bar.  Natasha in turn waves over the latest newcomer, a tall black man in jeans but with a distinctly military bearing, in order to introduce him to the Captain. 

Clint, for his part, swallows and stills as he waits for what might come next. 

 _Phil._ She said _Phil._  

“You knew Phil.”  

It’s not a question, but neither is it an accusation; it’s more like the tacit introduction of a third person into a conversation his hostess is obviously intent on having.  Clint doesn’t really know Pepper, but you don’t get to where she is without a clear line of sight to whatever target you are aiming for.  And right now, it appears, the target is him.  

But she said _Phil,_ and how could he walk away from that? 

Pepper nods, blinking a few times in rapid succession as she does so.  Whatever she’s come to say to him, it won’t be easy for her, either. 

“Yes I did know Phil.  He came to talk to me a few times, about the Avengers Initiative.  He was probably not supposed to, but it’s … let’s just say, most people find it easier to talk to me than to Tony, so Phil used me as the intermediary.  And somehow we became … something like friends.” 

Clint is on high alert, but not giving anything away. 

“Yeah, Phil … he … was always good at judging people.  Who to talk to.  And when.” 

“ _You_ were his friend.” 

Clint grips the stem of his wine glass tightly, before taking another sip to buy both time and courage. 

“Yes.  Yes I was.  And he … mine.” 

Pepper gives a little sigh, almost as if she is glad to have found a kindred soul. 

“Tony used to get pretty ticked off at Phil.  Especially when Phil tried to guilt him into doing things he just wasn’t interested in.” 

Clint snorts just a little, like he is remembering a conversation he once had.  “Like joining S.H.I.E.L.D. and saving the world?” 

“That.  And the Avengers Initiative.” 

“Yeah.  Whatever that is … whatever _we_ are now.  Not sure what Phil would have made of the way things turned out.  But whatever he expected, I bet he didn’t expect having to face Loki alone.” 

The bitterness in his voice at that last is unmistakable, and Pepper weighs her words carefully.  For all her usual bluntness she has a delicate touch, and she knows thin ice when it starts to crack under her feet.  

“You know, Clint, I talked with Phil … just after that whole Loki thing started.  He gave me a ride to the airport, while Tony went over all the technical data about the tesseract.” 

Clint is holding his body absolutely still now, and she knows she has his full attention. 

“As I said, Phil always told me things he probably wasn’t supposed to, but that he thought I needed to know.  Almost as if he was putting them into a safety deposit box.  And what he told me in the car to LaGuardia was that a good friend of his had been taken hostage by the enemy, and had his mind and his free will taken away.” 

Clint’s eyes are unreadable now, darkened to the colour of a hurricane on the high seas, and fixed on hers with an intensity she finds surprisingly calming.  Still, he says nothing, and Pepper understands with a sudden flash of clarity that those things – the silence, the patient waiting, that tightly harnessed raw power – are the very essence of the man before her.  

But those things aren’t all that he is, and it is that other part of Clint Barton she wants to reach.  The part she _has_ to reach, if he is to hear the message she believes she has been entrusted with for him. 

“Phil said we were at war, and that he had no idea how it might end because it was all so new and different -- the enemy, the weapons.  Everything.  And that his … friend was the best soldier he’d ever known, apart from Captain America, and that he would make a formidable enemy.  That he didn’t know whether S.H.I.E.L.D. could win without him … without you.” 

A small noise escapes the back of Clint’s throat at this, but Pepper won’t let him turn it into words.  She isn’t finished and puts her hand on his arm to quiet him. 

“But Phil also said that whatever happened, he hoped that people wouldn’t blame you, because whatever your body and your mind were doing, it wasn’t _you._ ” 

Now she is done, and all she can add is, “I thought you should know that.  And … that Phil wanted you to know that that’s what he believed.”

Clint’s muscles tighten and relax and tighten again under her fingers.  He still hasn’t said anything, and so she adds one more thing. 

“And he was right, too.  We did win, eventually.  But _with_ you.” 

She lets go of his arm now, and he uses the sudden freedom of movement to take a deep draught of his drink before breaking his silence.  

“Thank you.  That … means a lot.”  

He swallows hard, and doesn’t bother to hide the slight crack in his voice.  The real Clint Barton has come out and Pepper knows she should be pleased; instead, she’s fighting a lump in her own throat.

“I miss him.” 

“We all do.” _Phil._  

Clint raises his glass, and looks her directly in the eye. 

“To Phil.”  

“Phil,” Pepper nods, and raises her glass in turn.  It’s almost as if a weight has been taken off her shoulder – well, maybe not all the way off, but moved around a bit, so it doesn’t press quite so much.  But she’s not quite done yet, and so she ploughs on. 

“You look much better now than you did back then, when I first saw you.  As I said by the elevator, I almost didn’t recognize you today.”  

Clint doesn’t quite know what to make of that, but he is grateful for the apparent non sequitur and the diversion she seems to be willing to offer. 

“Armani does that to people.  But I guess we all looked like crap after that fight.  The shawarma Tony made us eat didn’t help.” 

“That’s not what I meant, Clint.” 

He frowns a little, wondering what the hell she _does_ mean.  He won’t ask, though, knowing by now that she will tell him.  Whatever it is, it’s probably another reason why she came over to talk to him, maybe even why she’d invited him to this … party in the first place.  Like Natasha, Pepper Potts does very few things by accident. 

“You looked … just like Tony, then.  After he came back from Afghanistan.  When he thought no one was looking.  You see, he lost someone there, in those caves, someone who helped him through the torture and taught him something about purpose.  Meeting Yinsen changed him, to what he is now.  Good … and bad.  But mostly good.  Tony won’t ever talk about him, or about what happened in those caves, but I thought you should know.” 

Clint understands then what she’s trying to tell him, or at least he thinks he does.  Tony Stark is not the easiest man to like even if he doesn’t try to piss you off deliberately.  What she has just told him may ensure that at least one person on the team will have the man’s back, no matter how annoying he’ll get.  

He gives a small nod.  

“Thanks.  Guess Stark … Tony and I have more in common than I thought.  Good to know.”  

He looks over to where Natasha is chatting with Steve and that big black dude, whoever he is, then back to Pepper.  His eyes bore into hers, but they’re much less intense, much warmer now. 

“Good thing we both have help.” 

He is prevented from saying more by The Man himself.  Tony Stark  breezes onto the terrace as if he owned the place (which of course he does), wearing a Twisted Sister t-shirt and jeans that are stained by something that might or might not be axle grease.  

Tony sweeps Pepper into his arms and plants a deep, sloppy kiss on her lips without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“Still on for tonight, I presume?  You were only kidding, right??” he stage-whispers into her ear as if Clint weren’t present. 

“Behave, and we’ll see,” she responds.  “And _behaving_ includes acknowledging your guests.” 

Tony turns around as if he’s just noticed Clint’s presence, and makes a show of raising his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. 

“Legolas, my man.  How are things?  They let you get back to killing people yet?” 

Clint considers this for a second.  So, yeah, the guy has earned some slack as a fellow PTSD alumnus, in addition to having had a major hand in saving the world.  Doesn’t mean he has to let him get away with shit, though. 

“Hey yourself, nope, and I’d rather you didn’t call me that.” 

Tony looks at him in wounded consternation. 

“Legolas, my lethal friend, is the most highly skilled archer in Middle Earth.  Like you, he _never_ misses.  And that thing he does, skateboarding down the stairs, and running up and down that elephant, while firing endless arrows?  _Badass_.  I thought you’d be flattered.” 

Clint is not. 

“The guy’s a fucking elf.” 

And just in case his point isn’t clear, Clint elaborates, “With flowing blonde locks.  We got one of those already, I’m sure you noticed.  Bit less dainty.” 

Tony harrumphs a little and finishes entering some commands into his smartphone.  He pushes the _send_ button dramatically, holding the thing up in the air. 

“ _That_ felt good.  So what shall I call you, then?” 

“Barton.  Clint.  Hawkeye, if you feel the need for colour.  _Hey you_ , in a pinch.’” 

Tony sighs and shakes his head. 

“But that’s so … _normal._ ”  He says it with a little shudder, the way Clint said _small talk_ earlier that evening. 

“ _Normal_ is actually what I’m going for these days.  Not as easy as it sounds.” 

“Yeah, I give you that one.  ‘Normal’ must have its challenges, for a guy still using a bow in the Age Of Man.”  

Tony frowns, but then grins as something flits across his mind.   

“Then again, it took you how many arrows to almost knock Fury’s boat out of the sky?  Three?  I meant to tell you, that was actually quite cool.  Even if you almost broke my suit.” 

“ _Tony …”_ Pepper tries to intervene in the name of common courtesy, but Clint holds up his hand to ward her off. 

“No, that’s okay.  Sort of what I wanted to discuss, anyway.  Arrows, I mean.  Yes, they can be useful in the avenging business.  But the thing is, if we’re going to have to deal with aliens on a regular basis, I might need some new options for my tips …” 

Tony looks intrigued, so Clint adds, “Sustainability almost became an issue up there in the end.  Of course, what I’d _really_ like is a quiver like the bag that girl had in the Harry Potter movies.  You know, something that’s really big inside and weighs nothing and you can carry anything you want?  But I suppose that’s not on, so here’s some other ideas.” 

And before she knows it, Pepper’s insistence that Tony greet his other guests has been shelved, in favour of a discussion on extended trajectories, nerve agents that can potentially deal with alien physiologies, and the benefits of a homing device capable of pulling an arrow out of its target’s vitals and returning it to the quiver.  

Pepper has taken a genuine liking to Clint, and she started her career in a company built on devising more efficient ways to kill people.  But the truth is, she was actually quite happy when Tony went ploughshares and so she excuses herself from the increasingly gory conversation, not that either man is paying attention.  She heads to the bar to join Natasha and Steve, crossing paths with Colonel Rhodes who has been imperiously waved over to officiate at the wedding between medieval weaponry and design magic.

 

…..

 

About an hour into the discussion – the more conventional guests have left, and Rhodey pleaded an early flight to the West Coast -- Clint’s smartphone rings.  It’s Fury, informing _Agent_ Barton that he better show up for work on Monday; holiday’s over. 

Seems like the Council decided to speed up its deliberations when someone sent them a clip of them ordering the nuclear strike on Manhattan, and suggested the next recipient might be the International Criminal Court in The Hague.  Not to mention various media outlets, starting with CNN and the BBC. 

Fury has no idea how the sender got their mitts on the footage, and has ordered an investigation (the way he says it, it’ll probably be delegated to the guy from the mail room).  But the next time Clint sees Tony Stark, would he please tell him that the spliced-in amateur YouTube clip of Iron Man falling from the sky had been a definite highlight. 

_Well, shit._

Clint raises his glass to Tony, who just shrugs.  

“Hey, ripping through Gordian knots is my specialty.  Call it even for all those flight plans you gave me that day.  Now what was that you said, about the allowance you need to make for wind speed when …” 

This is actually the longest Tony has ever deigned to linger at a social occasion that did not involve narcotic drugs and seventeen vestal virgins; Pepper counts it as a win, despite all the shop talk and the fact that he didn’t talk to anyone else.  People got to snap his photo on their iPhones so they have proof they were in his presence, and that counts.  Plus, he is almost sober and only insisted on calling Banner twice.  (Luckily, it’s daytime in Colcata, where Bruce is in the process of handing his clinic over to the Red Cross, and he took the requests for his considered views on alien-unfriendly neurotoxins in stride.) 

But now they’re down to just hanging out, and that’s surprisingly okay.  Clint is presently perched on the terrace railing with his back to the skyline and the abyss beneath; when Pepper pleads with him to get down, he makes a show of leaning back as if he’s about to throw himself off.  

“Assassin humour,” Tony helpfully explains, while Natasha points out that they’re lucky that circus boy isn’t _walking_ on the railing.  She has learned over the years that Clint never gets drunk – too many shitty memories associated with that concept.  But when he’s relaxed, his inner juvenile delinquent comes out and he likes to fuck with people’s serenity, just to see what they do.  So there’s another piece of him reclaimed, and she smiles into her glass. 

Pepper has decided it’s best to turn her back to the railing, and brings up her ongoing complaint that Tony refuses to close up the Loki crater.  It sticks out like a sore thumb in the otherwise immaculate penthouse, and deeply offends her sense of feng shui.  Her transparent effort to rally support kicks Tony into Marc Antony mode. 

“My fellow Avengers.  I call on your loyalty, your spirit of adventure and your memories of victorious battle.   _You_ tell her.  It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?  Hollow, yet satisfying?” 

“Beautiful isn’t the word I would have picked.”  Natasha has given the matter serious thought, and would really like to support Pepper but just can’t.  She has her own memories of Loki, and the site of his final humiliation is … special.  “But satisfying, yes.  I give you that.  I say keep it.”  

“It does look like a construction site,” Steve offers, pretending to be flustered at having to choose sides but ever the gentleman.  Besides, hey – it’s Stark.  

“It’s … unfinished.  Doesn’t fit with the rest of the apartment.  Which is lovely, not sure I’ve said that yet.  It is.  Lovely, I mean.  The apartment, not the crater.”  

He was doing better at the beginning, but Pepper shoots him a grateful look nonetheless.  She nods once, in that clipped, determined way of hers. 

“See?” she challenges Tony.  “Captain America gets it.  Besides, the hole is on _my_ twelve percent of the terrace.  And I want it fixed.” 

“If you think it looks unfinished, why not finish it?” 

All eyes turn to Clint.  

“Coat it in acrylic or something.  Hell, you’re rich enough, Stark – line it with gold or platinum.  Stick in an oxygen pump and add some fish.  Every penthouse needs a reflecting pool.” 

Pepper and Tony exchange considering glances.  

“It’s called ‘a compromise’.  Or so I’m told.”

When the resulting discussion turns to how large koi can get and Tony threatens to call Bruce again, this time about possible genetic alterations, Clint jumps off the railing.  His work here is done, besides Natasha’s body language is unmistakable.  She’s been looking at that jacket and the white t-shirt all night, he at that near backless dress, and he’s starting to think of ways to properly mark their first public appearance as … _them_. 

Clint casts one last lingering look at the skyline of the healing city, and the firefly dance of the cranes that will be working through the night.  There’s just one more thing he needs to ask as they head for the door. 

“Hey, Stark,” Clint calls out to Tony, who is headed for the bar to pour himself another drink to celebrate the unexpected peace agreement with Pepper.  Tony turns around, eyebrow raised. 

“Since we’re into repurposing stuff now.  You got eight cameras up here, right?” 

Tony winces, even as Pepper’s eyes widen and she mouths an unmistakable, ‘ _Eight???_ ’ 

“So tell me, does this … JARVIS of yours still have the old security tapes from the day of the battle, or did they get fried?” 

“JARVIS?  You heard the man.  Do you?”  

Tony takes a sip, swishes the liquid peat around in his mouth and wonders how the hell he’ll explain the extra four cameras to Pepper.  

“ _I can access security tapes dating back to the day I was brought on line in this location, sir_ ,” the polite AI voice intones from nowhere.  “ _My memory is independent of this building’s infrastructure.”_  

Clint breaks out in a grin that can only be described as wolfish. 

“Great,” he says.  “Think you could make me a clip of when the Hulk made that hole and e-mail it?” 

He notices four pairs of eyes on him, and shrugs, not at all defensive. 

“Should make a great screen saver, for when I’m back at work.”

 

 


	3. Central Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: Are you as keen to see Thor and Hawkeye talk to each other as I am? In the movies, their orbits intersect only briefly: in the pouring rain in New Mexico; making a stand on the streets of Manhattan; silently chewing on shawarma; and in Central Park, when Thor takes Loki back in chains. The only comment we have from one about the other is Clint’s laconic, “I’m starting to root for the guy” -- spoken even as his arrow was trained on Thor’s throat. And let’s not forget that it was Thor’s kid brother who raped Hawkeye’s mind. Oh, my. Hello, fan fiction!
> 
> Now, while I have a passing knowledge of Norse mythology, I’m not familiar with the Marvel comic version of Thor. I see him as a man not unlike Steve Rogers, whose cultural frame of reference is … different. That fish-out-of-water element can be funny, but Thor is not a fool. Far from it. He is a future ruler -- the Prince Hal of Asgard, still prone to laddish behaviour but increasingly able to make the tough calls, marching towards his Agincourt. As such, he can be expected to know a thing or two about people, even if their ways are as alien to him as his world is to them. 
> 
> The MCU Asgard seems like a warrior society that looks a bit like an Art Deco/steam punk version of the Age of Chivalry. But it’s laced with random fantasy elements, and so I feel perfectly entitled to make stuff up -- like that thing with the names. What you call people, and when, is an important part of who they are, to you and to themselves. Thor would be far more careful with this than Ironman.
> 
> Finally – happy birthday, Shenshen77!

 

Even on a weekday afternoon, Central Park in July is a busy place.  With school out for the summer, the air is abuzz with Frisbees and kites and the squeals of children.  There are bikers everywhere, including where they shouldn’t be, ringing their bells and shouting obscenities when joggers don’t clear out of their path fast enough.  

By mid-morning, the usual flocks of Filipino nannies have descended on the various bits of open grass with their expensively dressed charges, chattering away with each other in Tagalog and politely reminding little Olivia or Lucas to please keep their sunhat and shoes on.

It’s an odd place to meet a God, but then it’s not the first time Clint has come here for that purpose.  The day is a gorgeous one and he has decided to walk up from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Manhattan base, where he’d been finishing his latest mission report.  After hours spent cooped up in the lookout, his legs can use the stretch, too. 

To say that he is curious would be an understatement.  The summons (maybe that’s not what it was meant to be, but that’s sure how it came across) had arrived by email, via Erik Selvig’s friend Jane Foster, the astrophysicist who’d given Coulson such a hard time in New Mexico and was sufficiently close to Thor to merit evac when the Loki shit storm hit.  This is what it had said: 

“ _I would meet the Warrior Hawkeye at the place of our parting, at midday on the day that bears my name._ ” 

Just how Thor himself might be communicating with his astrophysicist lady friend Clint also doesn’t know, and frankly doesn’t want to.  The last thing he wants to see is any kind of direct wire to Asgard – who the hell knows what would happen if someone there were to dial a wrong number and get him by mistake?   

On the other hand, the idea of a direct line to God is faintly ironic, given that Clint’s latest mission had involved someone who‘d used His instructions to bilk thousands of elderly followers out of their life savings.  (The good priest had regularly laid claim to the _droit du Seigneur_ among the younger members of his flock.) 

He knows, of course, that Thor is not a god; that label was bestowed on him by ignorant Vikings who knew squat about inter-stellar gateways.  (Not that Clint knows much more than them, except for a passing and unwanted familiarity with the materials needed to construct the fucking things.)  Plus, anyone who’s seen the guy put away six helpings of shawarma, three extra-large servings of fries, and four bottles of Pepsi (and heard the belches afterwards) knows that he’s fundamentally a man.  A man with an alien metabolism, and certain skills and abilities that come in handy in a fight, but … a man nonetheless. 

By now Clint has rounded Central Park Lake and loosely bounds up the steps to Bethesda Terrace.  He’s a few minutes early – he’s assuming that “midday” for Thor actually does mean noon and not four pm or something -- and stops at a little concession cart on the Terrace to pick up a bottle of water.  The vendor, an enormous black guy with a Mets baseball cap and a toothy grin, barely gives Clint a second glance as he dives into the fridge compartment of his cart. 

“Beautiful day, eh, man?” he says as he rummages among the ice cubes.  “Hot and dry.  Good for business.” 

Clint is glad that the guy apparently has no clue who his customer is, and once again counts his lucky stars that he spent most of the Chitauri battle out of reach of people’s smart phones and subsequent YouTube immortalization. The only civilians he’d gotten close to were the ones he helped off that bus, and they were too busy to come away with anything more than verbal descriptions of their enigmatic rescuer; he finds the sunglasses help, too.  Steve isn’t so lucky; given his size and that blonde hair, the poor guy can’t walk a block without being recognized.  Simple exchanges with folks like he himself used to be have become a rare pleasure for Captain America. 

“Sure is.  Actually, on second thought, make it two.”  

Who knows, maybe interstellar travel has the same effect as walking in the New York sun, and if Thor doesn’t want the water, he’ll have no problems downing two.  He sticks the second bottle into the waistband of his jeans and hands the vendor five bucks, waving off the offer of an ice cream bar.  Clint may have started out as a carnie from Iowa, but once you’ve had a proper Milanese gelato, edible oil product on a stick just doesn’t cut it anymore, no matter how warm the weather.  Natasha would be proud of him. 

He sits down on the stone railing, cracks open his bottle, takes a deep draught and looks up at the sky.  It’s a cloudless cerulean blue, just as it had been that day in May when Thor had taken his … brother back home, to face whatever passes for justice in Asgard.  The Terrace is exposed, sunny and sparsely populated; there’s a handful of tourists snapping photos of the lake and the grand apartment buildings fringing the park, the water cart, and that’s about it.  

Nobody is paying any attention to the guy in jeans and a t-shirt – something that’s about to change, Clint figures, as he finishes his water.  Last time the place was used for a beam-out to Asgard, S.H.I.E.L.D. had blocked off access to the terrace and most New Yorkers were still cowering indoors or watching re-runs of the battle on CNN.  Floating down a sparkly bridge in broad daylight might just attract some attention …  

Oh, well.  Can’t be helped.

Clint assumes that the reason Thor picked this spot for a meeting is that he still has the coordinates programmed in somewhere, and whatever mechanism he uses will pretty much spit him out in exactly the same place.  

What Clint _doesn’t_ know is why.   

And what he doesn’t want to admit to himself is that he’s getting a tad apprehensive, given the imminent arrival of a guy from a place where mind control is …  _Shit.  Get a grip, Barton._  

Eleven fifty-nine.  He looks up again, grateful for his sunglasses.  Damn, that sun is bright. 

As if on cue, a single beam seemingly streams down from the sun, towards a spot in the paving stones a few feet away from where Clint is sitting.  It comes out in pretty much the exact spot he’d figured, based on his memories of … 

 _That Day._   

He swallows down the memory of the bile that rose in his throat when he made himself meet Loki’s eyes -- through dark glasses, yes, but still … they were so … so blue … so full of contempt … and the tesseract was right there, beside him and …  Clint crumples the empty water bottle in his fist and calls on the echo of Natasha’s voice, whispering a crude joke in his ears as she tried to get him to relax, when all he really wanted to do was run, or strike. 

Much to Clint’s very private relief, Thor’s entrance lacks the explosive drama of the tesseract-engineered one that Loki made in New Mexico.  There’s an odd sound though, kind of like the reverse of a popping cork – only reasonable when you have something suddenly taking up space, where there was previously only air.  But even though air displacement and movement are part of Clint’s truck and trade, any further analysis ends there – _because_.  

Thor isn’t the most inconspicuous of people at the best of times, and when he’s turning up out of basically nowhere, sun glinting on black metal armor, red cape and long blonde hair flowing in the breeze and all that – well, it’s kind of … others might say awe-inspiring but Clint doesn’t do awe, so he’ll settle for impressive.  He slides off his perch and walks towards Thor in his usual loose, stalking gait, determined not to let his tension show. 

“Hey, man, good to see you,” he says neutrally, extending his hand in greeting.  “Been a while.” 

“It is good to see you, too, Friend Archer,” Thor growls in that outdoor baritone of his, and takes the archer’s hands in both of his, shaking it vigorously but -- thankfully -- not squeezing too hard.  Clint’s phalanges and metacarpals will live to handle his bow another day. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.  I was not sure …” 

Whatever it is that Thor’s not sure about, Clint is absolutely sure it can wait.  For now, the chorus of ‘ _holy shits’_ and ‘ _what the fucks’_ emanating from the assorted people on the Terrace suggests that maybe the priorities here are relocation and a lower profile. 

“Formalities later.  Can you do that thing where you change your outfit?  To something less dramatic, and more seasonally appropriate?”  

It takes Thor only a few seconds and a look at the various gaping mouths to appreciate what Clint is trying to say.  He gives a small nod and his armour unravels from his feet up, turning into blue jeans and the same light-blue shirt Clint remembers him wearing in New Mexico.  Good enough.  Sure beats that pompous buffalo hat Loki put on to impress people. 

Now as for the gawkers …  Clint pulls his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge out of his jeans pocket and holds it up.  If you don’t look to close – and people won’t, they see what they expect – it could be NYPD. 

“Official business,” he intones in his best gravelly _don’t-fuck-with-me-I’m-a-cop_ voice.   “Nothing to see here, folks.  Move along.” 

He turns to Thor.  

“Let’s get out of here, before they start snapping photos.  Believe me, you don’t want to get your face on Twitter.  At least I don’t.” 

He gives a thumbs up to water cart guy -- whose mouth is still hanging open -- and bounds down the steps towards Terrace Drive, hoping Thor will get the hint and follow.  He does, and a few minutes later, they’re just two guys strolling through the park on their day off, one of them rather larger than the other. 

Now, Clint can be silent with Natasha or Steve for hours, and be utterly comfortable.  But walking beside this … this giant of a man, who could squish him -- and the trees lining the path -- like so many ants, the silence seems more awkward than anything.  And since Clint doesn’t do _awkward_ any better than he does _awe_ , he decides to ask a simple question that’s been niggling at him ever since … well, whatever.  Purely professional interest – getting in and out of his tac vest can be a royal pain. 

“Just how _do_ you do that thing, anyway?  Those new clothes real, or an illusion?” 

Thor shrugs diffidently. 

“They are what you see.” 

Well, that isn’t exactly an answer, unless you’re into metaphysics, which Clint isn’t; he tends to leave that sort of thing to dead poets and German philosophers.  But it’s probably all he’s going to get, and to Thor it probably makes perfect sense.  It’s all in your frame of reference.  Maybe something less complicated then, to start a conversation.  In the interest of direct contact he pushes his sunglasses up on his head and turns to Thor, trying to catch his eyes. 

“Water?”  

Clint pulls out the bottle from behind his back, once they have reached the lake and anonymity has been restored.  

“Here, I got that for you, in case you’re thirsty after the trip.  But it’s okay if you don’t want it.” 

Thor stops in his tracks and reaches for the bottle, cradling it in his hand for a moment before seeking out and holding Clint’s eyes.  

“You would share water with me.” 

 _Yeah?_ Cue cultural reference check.  Water.  Sharing.  Asgard.  _Good or bad, Barton_?  Fuck if he knows.  Where’s the Lonely Planet Guide To The Nine Realms when you need one? 

“It’s pretty warm out today,” Clint offers, projecting rather more confidence than he feels.  “And you’ve come a long way.  Was buying one anyway, thought you could use it.” 

Thor smiles broadly in response, displaying a set of rather impressive canines.  

“Thank you, Friend Archer.  That was most thoughtful of you.” 

Good, then. _Phew._  

Clint watches his companion drain the water in one large gulp, and holds out his hand.  

“Here, I’ll get rid of that,” he says, and pitches first his own, then Thor’s bottles into a garbage can a hundred or so feet down the path. 

“You have the most excellent aim, my friend,” Thor comments, and Clint glances up at him, now mildly suspicious.  Whatever reason his supposed teammate came back to what he calls _Midgard_ for, it probably wasn’t to comment on the patently obvious.  Maybe he’s feeling just as awkward about this rendezvous as Clint is? 

Time to cut the crap. 

“Yeah, people have mentioned that, once or twice.  But tell me.  Why’d you ask to meet me?” 

The big Asgardian grows still, and his face takes on a solemn expression as he looks down at Clint. 

“You are right to wonder, Friend Archer.  I came for a reason.” 

He takes a deep breath before continuing. 

“I would speak to you of my brother.” 

_Oh, shit._

 

…..

 

Thor walks silently beside the man he knows as Hawkeye, the Archer.  They fought side by side in honourable battle, broke bread together when the day was won, but they have never really spoken. 

He has other names, the Archer -- names that Thor does not feel free to use because his comrade-in-arms has not formally shared them with him.  It has been simply an absence of opportunity; that the Archer would do so Thor has no doubt, especially given this welcome gift of water.  But proprieties must be preserved. 

 _Clint._   _Barton._ Those are the names the Lady Natasha had called the Archer, in that small and shattered place where the six of them had gone for their meal.  She had said them repeatedly, as if to recall the Archer to their presence, to himself; at times he had seemed so far away, so lost in thought.  Or perhaps she had meant to reassure _herself_ that he was there with her, by naming him again and again?  

It had been clear to Thor then that the formidable flame-haired woman warrior and the silent Archer were more than comrades-in-arms, more than what he himself was to the Lady Sif.  While there are great differences among the peoples of the Nine Realms in how they carry their bodies and move their hands, the pull between these two had been as undeniable as that between a planet and its sun or moon. 

 _Clint Barton._   _Hawkeye._   What had his own brother called this man, when he forced himself into his mind, made him fight his battles?  Had he called him anything at all, in those days when he held him in thrall? 

It pains him still, Loki’s second betrayal – his utter rejection of his home and family.  But Thor also knows that it had been the Archer who suffered most at Loki’s hands.  It is a harsh thing, to lose one’s self; Thor himself had suffered only a removal of his powers at Odin’s hands, never the imposition of the Allfather’s will on his own.  What was done to the Archer is forbidden under all the laws of Asgard, ranked akin to the taking of a maiden’s body against her will. 

Erik Selvig had suffered too, of course, but he at least had been allowed, in a way, to follow his own dreams -- to learn and to discover the very thing he was already studying.  The knowledge Erik acquired while doing Loki’s bidding may yet be able to be turned to good.  For Clint Barton, Loki’s power had brought nothing but the death of friends, doubts of his loyalty, and a loss of self. 

Still, Thor hesitates to start the talk that he had requested.  He knows that it will be difficult and as his mother has often reminded him, he is a warrior, not a diplomat. 

The Archer throws the two clear drinking vessels into a green container.  His aim is uncanny at the distance, and Thor comments on it – quite unnecessarily he knows, but the silence between them is stretching -- and is promptly rewarded with the question he feared. 

“Why did you ask to meet me?” 

Thor suppresses a sigh.  

“You are right to wonder, Friend Archer.  I came for a reason.  …  I would speak to you of my brother.” 

A shadow crosses the Archer’s face at this, as black as Nidhogg’s wings when they darken the moon.  Thor knows he must say more -- lest the Archer thinks he would plead his brother’s case, in the face of the supreme violation he committed against this man. 

“Do not be concerned.  I would speak _of_ him, not _for_ him.  His deeds were heinous -- a betrayal of all that Asgard stands for.  Loki remains under lock and guard deep beneath the Allfather’s palace.” 

“Good,” the Archer replies, his mouth a grim line, his eyes hard as flint.  “Make sure he stays there.  And don’t bother saying hello for me.” 

Thor reflects on that last remark for a moment, and concluded that it is likely the Midgardian form of humour that Darcy Lewis calls ‘sarcasm’.  Something that can serve for both defence and attack, but is generally best appreciated for its wit and ignored for its substance -- like Ironman’s utterings.   

“Allow me to explain, Friend Archer.” 

The Archer’s gaze turn away from Thor for a moment, following a flock of birds as they wheel through the sky.  His eyes hold many colours, the Asgardian notes, colours found in the sea and the sky and the Earth, colours that appear to change with the man’s mood.  When Loki held him, they would have been the singular bright blue of the tesseract and the ice of Jotunheim.  At the moment, they are mostly jade green and stone grey.  Hard, but better. 

“Sure,” the Archer says.  “Go ahead.  Should be interesting.  But if you don’t mind, I think I want to sit down for that.  It’s lunchtime anyway, so let’s go find a pub or something.  There should be something towards Madison.” 

A _pub_.  Thor remembers this word, from the evening he spent in convivial drink with Erik Selvig.  Some things are indeed best shared over a meal, it is true, although Thor cannot help but suspect that the Archer simply wishes to postpone their discussion for a while longer.  It is a fair request, and he nods his consent. 

They mostly walk in silence, asking occasional small questions of one another.  The Archer inquires about the length of the journey from Asgard, and how much time has passed for Thor while he was there.  Thor, in turn, craves news about the wellbeing of their comrades-in-arms.  A couple of the Archer’s jesting remarks about Ironman make Thor laugh; by the time a suitable eating establishment has been selected, his companion’s eyes have lost their stone-hard look. 

“The steaks here are huge,” the Archer ventures as they settle at a shady table outside, in a small square on the street that is fenced off against passers-by.  Thor notes with approval that his companion has selected a seat with his back to the wall, whence he can observe all goings-on.  

“Although having seen what you can pack away, you won’t have any problems dealing with that.”  The Archer pulls out his wallet and gives a brief look inside.  “Good,” he nods.  “We’re covered.  Got the S.H.I.E.L.D. AmEx with me.  Way I figure, Fury owes you a decent lunch.  Services rendered, and all that.” 

Thor remains silent; whatever has just transpired does not seem to require his comment.  As for the fare, he had been happy to follow Ironman’s lead the last time he dined in a Midgardian inn, and so he invites the Archer to issue the commands.  The latter does so, requesting something called _a hamburger-the works-no-veg-extra-pickles_ for himself, as well as a tankard of ale for each of them. 

Their meals arrive quickly.  The Archer’s dish proves to be sliced cheese and bacon atop a piece of meat surrounded by bread, dripping with an assortment of multi-coloured sauces.  Volstagg would enjoy a meal like this, Thor muses; the opportunities for mischief and entertainment appear to rival its value as sustenance. 

“This looks interesting, Friend Archer.”  Thor nods to the waitress, a comely maiden with a dark ponytail who is still holding his plate.  He tests out the words, “ _Hamburger, the works._ Bring me two of those as well, wench.”  

The serving maiden stares at him, her mouth open as if she would say something, but the Archer shrugs at her and says, “Never mind my friend, he’s not from around here.  _Vench_ is Norwegian for ‘young lady’.  No disrespect intended.  And yes, that’s in addition to what he’s already ordered.” 

The young woman snorts, deposits Thor’s slab of meat and small strips of potato in front of him with a fiery look and an audible bang, and stomps back to the kitchen.  

“A spirited maiden,” Thor remarks around his steak.  “Did my words offend her in some way?  And what are these leaves?”  He sticks his fork into the decorative parsley quizzically.  “Are they meant for eating?” 

The Archer gives a half-grin – the first Thor has seen on him since he mentioned his brother – and shrugs again.  

“Personally, I don’t touch that green stuff.  Rabbit food, not fit for warriors.  But I wouldn’t call a New York woman ‘wench,’ if I were you – whether she’s serving in a tavern or no.  They’re liable to pull out a can of mace or a Taser.” 

Thor actually winces a little at the unhappy memory that comment evokes; the Archer raises an eyebrow but foregoes the obvious question.  Instead, he grips his hamburger with both hands, as if for reassurance, and focuses a wary but unwavering gaze on Thor.  He is ready. 

“So.  What was it exactly you wanted to talk about?”  He takes a large bite and waits. 

Thor, in turn, chews thoughtfully for a moment – the meat is succulent and pleasantly flavoured, and must be given its due – before responding. 

“I know it cannot be easy for you to speak of these matters, even now.  I will be quick.  And fear not – I will not speak of what he asked you to do, Friend Archer.”  

The Archer relaxes a little at that but then cocks his head, a bit like a bird. 

“Clint.” 

Thor blinks back his surprise and swallows, his blue eyes wide.  Does the Archer know the gift he is giving -- and at this time, of all times? 

“You would give me your name?  Now?” 

“Well, yeah.  If we’re going to have this talk, which it seems like we are, and you came all the way across the universe to have it, you may as well call me by name.  Clint.  Or Barton.  Either’s fine.” 

“I have but one name to offer you in return, Clint – I am Thor.” 

The Archer has used his name before of course – the customs are different here on Midgard, Thor knows, and people call others more freely by their given name.  Or they make up names as Ironman does, with affection or contempt.  

“Thor.” 

Clint lifts his glass in acknowledgment; Thor raises his own in turn.  Midgardian customs are different from those of Asgard, but the Archer appears to have grasped the notion of the exchange, and Thor is pleased to follow his example in how to celebrate it.  

But now Clint waits for him to continue where they had left off, patiently, expectantly – and Thor finds himself without the words for a moment.  Some beginnings are more difficult than others. 

“I would know more about what made my brother do the things he did.  The why, not the how.” 

The Archer raises a single eyebrow and takes a sip of his water, to allow him to compose his response.  

“You mean, apart from being a megalomaniac with a penchant for world domination?  I thought he told you.  Didn’t you spend some quality time with him on Stark’s patio?” 

“He told me what he wanted me to hear, no more.  All he would let me see was his hatred, and all I could see in him in turn was my brother.  I cannot trust his words, or my ears.” 

Thor’s brow furrows in concentration as he tries to find a way to say what he must without offending. 

“Friend Archer – Clint.  It must be painful to remember the time when my brother held you in thrall.  But … it is understood by my people that the mind-bond Loki forced upon you would open a window into his own thoughts, on occasion when he was unguarded.  I wish to understand him, so we can prepare better, should there ever come a next time.” 

He knows he sounds almost pleading now, but that is secondary to impressing the importance of his mission upon Clint.   

“I need to see him through your eyes.  I believe those to be very clear, Clint.” 

The Archer gives a shot laugh, entirely without mirth.  

“How come you’re not asking Selvig?  He was there too, you know.  Thought you guys were close.” 

Thor nods. 

“I did ask Erik Selvig, through my Lady Jane, but I fear he had no insights to offer.  All he recalls is his delight in the tesseract and what it taught him.  But you …”  

He seeks out the Archer’s eyes again and sees the storm clouds gather in them, watches them as they darken from blue to green.  

“You, on the other hand, were privy to his plans and his ambitions.”  More softly, almost in apology, he adds, “Leaders, even bad ones, share much with their generals.  And I understand that you are trained in the observing of people.” 

The Archer reflects for a moment, turning his glass round and round in his hands, and looks up as if searching the sky for an answer.  His eyes fix on a large bird that glides high above the street canyons in search of prey; he follows its circles as if it might give him strength.  Perhaps it does.  Finally, he begins to speak, in a voice stripped of feeling. 

“‘ _I want to rule this world, not burrow in it_ ,’ Loki said to me.  We … _his mission_ required a distraction, and he grew a fucking horned helmet and golden armour.  He wants to be _seen_ , Thor, to be paid attention to.  Whatever he does, he needs people to see him, worship him.  Kneel before him.  Simple success, achieving his objectives will never be enough for Loki.  He has to make a splash.” 

Thor takes this in and nods again, slowly, but remains silent.  He knows there will be more. 

“He kept talking about testing his _mettle_.  Wanted to know about the Avengers Initiative.  Like he needed to prove that he was better than them in a fight, even if the fight wasn’t strictly necessary to achieve his goals.  Only an idiot seeks out a battle on purpose, but Loki has hubris to spare.” 

“Hubris?” 

“Sorry, forgot you’re Norse, not Greek.  Pride.  Arrogance.  Thinks he’s so good, the world owes him whatever he can get, and that he can get anything he wants.” 

Thor swallows hard at this; the word – _hubris --_ may be new to him, but its meaning is clear, its significance shamefully familiar. 

“Upshot is – it wouldn’t matter who Loki’s working with or for.  Everything is and always will be about _him_.  Reason or strategic planning have nothing to do with it.  He just … wants.”  

Thor sighs and shakes his head. 

“I had hoped for a suggestion of remorse, or insanity -- a sign that he was not … so much like me.  As I was.”  He looks up at the Archer, the pain darkening his eyes.  

“Whatever Loki is, Clint, he learned from me.” 

The Archer – Clint – leans forward, an intent look now on his face. 

“We’re not responsible for our brothers, Thor.  Yours hates your guts, so I suspect imitation wasn’t on his agenda.  He’s basically nuts.  Mine was a prize specimen, too; nothing to do with me, either.  Best you can do is make sure yours doesn’t get the chance to pull one over on you again.  Because he will.  Nothing to do with you, your father, or Asgard.  So get over it, and get ready.  Wallowing is useless.” 

He smiles, a little ruefully.  “Easier said than done, of course.  But -- you gotta try.”  Clint bites his lip, hesitates, and comes to a decision.  

“Perhaps this will help convince you that _you_ didn’t make him into what he is.  You see, when he looked inside my head, he …”

Thor notices the difference in the Archer’s voice -- hesitant, almost hoarse now.  He sits a little straighter in his chair to receive what he is about to be given. 

“… he found Natasha.  And … he made me want …  he made me want to kill her.  Just because he could.  You see, Thor, he _enjoys_ turning things that are good into something vile.  Gets off on it.  And that’s not because he watched you or learned from you or hated you.  That’s just … _him_.  His own warped fucking cesspool of a mind.” 

Thor nods his understanding and his thanks, and leans back in his chair; he will have to think on these matters some more.  For now, he lets out a deep sigh and stares up at the sky in his turn.  The bird of prey is circling there still, and Thor follows its flight for a moment with his eyes.  The bird offers no answers, of course, but a welcome distraction. 

“That bird, Clint.  It looks like it belongs in the wild, not here in the city.  What do you call it?” 

The Archer smiles a little now but doesn’t look up; if he is bothered by the deliberate change in topic, he does not show it.  

“That’s a hawk.” 

“The bird that gave you your other name?”  

Thor has been raised to believe in omens; having this bird watch over them as they spoke is auspicious indeed.  The Archer has spoken more than his true belief; he has spoken truth. 

 _Hawkeye_ shrugs, his features schooling themselves into a smile for the waitress, who has just delivered Thor’s two hamburgers.  The table is getting crowded. 

“Yep, that’s the one.  A lot of them have turned into city hunters, go after pigeons mostly.  They think the buildings are cliffs.” 

Silence reigns for a minute as Thor attacks his food and contemplates the two hawks, the bird and his human namesake.  He considers what to say next, once his mouth is clear of food, but is deprived of the opportunity when Clint speaks again. 

“Now _you_ tell _me_ something.  Since we’re here.” 

The words are spoken like a challenge, and the Archer’s gaze is calm and clear. 

“Can you be killed?”

 

…..

  

Obviously, the question is pretty personal as these things go, at least in cases where the answer is in any way in doubt.  Not the kind of thing you’d admit to any Tom, Dick or Harry either.  But it’s something that’s been bugging Clint for a while and he is, frankly, a bit pissed off about the spot Thor put him on with this little play date in Central Park.  As far as he is concerned the guy owes him, so now’s as good a time to ask as any. 

Interestingly, Thor isn’t fazed – or if he is, he doesn’t show it.  The guy is many things, but naïve isn’t one of them; the poker face suits him rather well.  And given the potential ramifications of a response, Clint isn’t surprised at the stall that follows. 

“Why do you seek that knowledge, friend Archer?” 

“No reason, really.  Just … curious.”  

Clint almost grins when Thor puts his finger on both the lie, and his reason for asking. 

“I doubt that, friend Archer.  It is about my brother, is it not?” 

No shit.  The answer would be dynamite intel, in case his former slaver decides to turn up again.  (Or even just if Clint were to come across him again somewhere, somehow, with nobody looking.)  And it’s a fair cop, Thor wanting to know. 

“I did have an arrow pointed at his eye socket.  What would have happened if he hadn’t surrendered?” 

“Would you have loosened the arrow?” 

Clint doesn’t hesitate. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” 

Thor sighs.  Yes, under similar circumstances to those the Archer had suffered he, too, would seek his opponent’s death – brother or no; in defense certainly, and possibly in revenge. 

“Then Loki would have died.  But know this, Clint, he is not of Asgard, but of Jotunheim.  I have seen the frost giants perish, including by my own hand.  _They_ are indeed mortal.”  

Clint does grin now -- at the non-answer, the obvious diversion, and the sincere cleverness with which all of it was delivered.  

People don’t give Thor enough credit for subtlety, given the way he talks, the way he fights, and that flashy outfit he wears.  The way Clint figures it, Thor’s shtick is probably normal for where he comes from – he is an alien, after all -- but underneath the Hollywood appearance he’s as crafty as the next guy when it comes to politicking and strategizing.  Hell, he _has_ to be, if he wants to run that realm of his.  How someone might act in any given situation depends pretty much on their frame of reference, and that’s something Clint always makes a point of considering before drawing a conclusion (or a bow string).  

“Noted,” he replies, his nod signaling his willingness to let the matter drop.  But there’s something that he thinks Thor should be aware of.  It’s only fair, if they’re to fight side by side again some day. 

“Just one thing you should know, though.  You remember New Mexico, when you barged into that S.H.I.E.L.D. compound they set up around your hammer, to get it back?” 

Thor frowns a little; his memories of that time probably aren’t happy ones, since he’d lost his powers.  But the way Clint figures it, that’s just too fucking bad.  Won’t hurt to remind the guy that everybody has days when … they’re not exactly themselves. 

“Well, you won’t know this, but I was there that day too, up in a crane, with an arrow trained on your carotid artery.  Watched you knock out security guards one after the other, like a game of whack-a-mole.  Kinda fun, actually.” 

Clint shakes his head at the memory, and how he’d told Coulson that he was starting to root for that big unknown hurricane of a man who was tossing the pros around like dried leaves. 

“Coulson never gave me the order to let fly.  So I didn’t.  Could have, but didn’t.  Thought you should know.” 

Thor has stopped chewing and stares at Clint thoughtfully in the wake of this revelation, his brows pulled together slightly.  But if he intended to make a response, he doesn’t get the chance; Clint’s smartphone rings, a short, imperious little beep that causes a smile to ghost across the archer’s face.  He gives his lunch companion a small, semi-apologetic smile and turns sideways to speak. 

“Hey. …  Having lunch with Thor.  …  Yep, the very one.  …  Tell you later, okay? …  Hey listen.  Care to join us?  He’s only on his third plate, so we may be here for a while yet. …  Sure.  I was just about to order coffee.  Okay, see ya soon.” 

He sticks the phone back in his pocket and motions to the waitress. 

“Hope you don’t mind.  I asked Natasha to join us.  Don’t think the two of you have ever really properly met either, have you?  I mean, apart from Manhattan?” 

Thor actually beams.  Clint thinks that it’s probably because he’s relieved that the conversation can turn to lighter things now, but maybe he’s actually happy to see Natasha again.  (Clint sure is – he got in from his first post-Loki mission late the night before, and it’s been over a week since he’s seen her.) 

“It will be a pleasure to meet the Lady Natasha once again,” Thor says, at just about the same time as the waitress comes over.  “She stood bravely against the Hulk, and my brother’s army.  A true warrior, like the Lady Sif.” 

The waitress seems to have forgiven Thor his earlier misstep in light of the business he’s bringing to the place, and actually smiles a little at them.  Four complete lunch orders from a table for two – and visions of a commensurate tip -- have taken the edge off her resentment, it seems. 

“We’ll need another place setting,” Clint says.  “And do you have – what do you call that salad, with the squishy cheese and tomatoes and basil?  My partner always orders that, so might as well get ahead of her.  She’ll be here in about fifteen minutes, so no rush.”  

“I think you mean the _Caprese_ salad,” the waitress offers, rolling her eyes at the species of ignorant male she is forever doomed to be serving.  

“Yeah, that, and some garlic bread to go with.  Oh, and another mineral water … and a double espresso for me, please.” 

He looks at Thor, whose interest appears to have stirred at the mention of more food, and raises his hand in warning. 

“You don’t want that Caprese stuff, Thor.  _Trust me_.  More rabbit food.  Get some dessert instead.” 

Thor points at a neighbouring table, where someone is on their third slice of pizza.  

“How about some of this pie?” 

Clint snorts, and shrugs.  “Sure, go for it, big guy.  Not as sweet as you might think, though.  But, whatever.  Your call.” 

Thor hands his two empty hamburger plates to the waitress, and smiles artlessly up at her when she asks him if he’s serious about having pizza for dessert.  Her voice borders on the indulgent, even as she glares reproachfully at Clint, for his apparent willingness to mislead his poor foreign friend.  Whatever skills Thor possesses, awakening the protective instincts of tough women is clearly up there. 

“Would you that I have something else then, my lady?  I have learned that many Midgardian sweets are pleasing to the palate.  I welcome your suggestions.  I do like pop tarts.” 

Clint observes with interest as the erstwhile ‘wench’ melts at being referred to as a lady, even as she is mildly horrified by Thor’s idea of a dessert.  He doubts the ‘lady’ routine would work on Natasha -- but then again, a few months ago he would never have thought he’d find her reading _Cosmopolitan_ for anything other than research. 

“The mud pie here’s pretty good.”  The waitress is practically cooing now.  “I can have Rupert cut you an extra big slice, if you’d like.” 

“Mud?  That does not sound very appetizing.”  

Thor frowns and looks to Clint for translation, if not enlightenment.  Clint can’t help but grin.  _Frame of reference, indeed._  

“Not quite what it sounds like.  Much better, in fact.  Tell you what, bring us two.”  He turns from the waitress back to Thor.  

“And if you don’t like it, Natasha will eat it.  Apparently, dessert isn‘t bad for you when someone else ordered it.  She’s been stealing mine for years.” 

The waitress recovers the menus before her odd patrons can change their minds again and disappears back into the restaurant.  Thor is obviously just as relieved as Clint that the conversation has taken a new turn, and leans back in his chair to take advantage of the changed mood.  He crosses his arms in front of his chest in the classic defensive posture, and Clint wonders just what could be next; this conversation has bee all over the map already.

“Tell me something, my friend.  And pray pardon any intrusion into matters that are private.  But the Lady Natasha and you …  you do not just fight side by side, is this not true?  You are betrothed?” 

There’s something about the complete artlessness with which Thor broaches this particular subject that cracks Clint’s defenses before he ever even got the chance to put them up.  But then again, he did get those inexplicably good vibes that day, in the New Mexico rain; seems like Thor is one of those people that just … _are_.  Like a force of nature, or something.  

“Emm …  I don’t know about _betrothed,_ exactly.  But …” He can’t help breaking out into a grin that manages to be both embarrassed and smug at the same time, and that makes Thor’s eyes crinkle in knowing amusement in turn.  “  Yeah.  She’s …  We’re…  Emm…  Yeah.” 

If Thor has noticed Clint’s sudden inability to string a coherent sentence together, he doesn’t give any indication of it.  Instead, he nods with the utmost sincerity. 

“She fought for you, your Lady, when you were in Loki’s thrall.  That was clear to us all.  My brother was not wise to cross her.  And this is something of what I wish to speak also.  You see, I seek …” 

Thor briefly fumbles for words himself now, before mustering the guts to carry on and it’s dawning on Clint that this regal warrior is as close to showing a piece of his own soul as he has just asked him to do.  But he’s not sure he could handle another dissection of Loki’s rotten mind, this time involving Natasha.  _There be monsters._ He schools his features into his most neutral expression, and awaits developments. 

Thor starts again, his eyes fully trained on the empty table before him, and his fingers wound up a little in his napkin.  Clint just waits, ready to fire. 

“Midgardian women are much different from those of my world, Clint.  I found this with my Lady Jane, and her friend, Young Darcy.  I would seek your wisdom so I can avoid missteps.” 

Clint is as close to speechless as he has ever been, and drops the neutrality as his voice cracks on the words he just manages to force out. 

“Let me get this straight.  You want … ummm … relationship advice?  From _me?”_

Thor might as well be asking him to crochet a doily; the disbelief in Clint’s voice would cause a lesser man to sink into the ground with a mumbled apology.  But Thor is from Asgard, where people are obviously not easily deterred – or else not attuned to nuance -- and just looks at him in blue-eyed expectation. 

“Of all my fellow warriors and friends here on Midgard, only you and Ironman are close to a woman.  But I believe that Ironman is not a suitable person with whom to discuss the fairer sex.  He would simply take the opportunity to jest, and these are serious matters.“ 

Clint can certainly see _that_.  He’s come to appreciate Tony, up to a point, especially after the little stunt the billionaire pulled on his behalf with the WSC.  But ask him a straight-up question, and you’d be hard pressed getting something other than a stream of quotable quotes; you’d have to dig out what you need between the snappy lines.  Not the sort of thing Thor would excel at, he suspects. 

That said, Clint hasn’t really given the nature of his changed and changing relationship with Natasha much specific thought, beyond admitting to himself that it’s the best thing that ever happened to him (apart from Phil Coulson), and that he wants it to work out better than some things in his past.  And so he remains silent for a moment, watching the waitress weaving in and around the wrought iron tables as he tries to come up with a response.   

Given Thor’s reticence to engage Stark, Clint rather suspects that the Asgardian wants neither a manual on How Best To Please An Earth Girl, nor an exposé on potential technical incompatibility à la _Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex._

But if he’s not interested in physical things, then what _does_ he want?  And what could Clint Barton possibly have to offer? 

Images start to race through Clint’s head: Natasha, gliding across a sparkling dance floor in Vienna, her eyes flashing up to the man on the balcony, there to ensure that she will leave alive.  Natasha, a whirling dervish of death in a dark, dank alley in Medellin, five bodies between her and her injured partner.  Natasha, holding perfectly still as he stitches up a nasty gash in some nameless hotel room in Minsk, her porcelain skin marred with purple contusions. 

Natasha, smashing his skull against hardened steel, but not hard enough to do what caution and her professional training should have.  Opening the restraints in the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical bay. 

“Trust.” 

“Trust?”  Thor is clearly waiting for more, especially given the time it has taken Clint to come up with his answer.

“Yeah.  _Trust_.  Oh, and respect.  Without that, you got nothing.  Been there, actually.  Total disaster.  But I don’t suppose that’s any different in Asgard, is it.” 

Thor looks at him intently but remains silent, clearly still very much in listening mode, and so Clint continues -- warming up to his topic as he goes. 

“Here’s another thing.  Your partner has to believe you have her back.  And she has to have yours, or it just won’t work.” 

He nods curtly, as if to punctuate his remarks.  Thor, in the meantime, has gone from _listening keenly_ to _slightly puzzled._  

“You do not mention love, Friend Archer.  You speak of your dealings with the fairer sex as you would of a comrade in battle, or a fellow warrior who guards your flank.” 

It’s Clint’s turn to look bewildered.  _Well, yes._

 _“_ Don’t know about you, or how they do things in Asgard, but I want a partner.  An equal.  Fuck that ‘ _fairer sex’_ crap.  That’s the second time you’ve used that.  If you think your … Lady is something different -- or _less_ \-- than what you are, or if she expects that kind of thinking from you, well, then you either have the wrong partner or the wrong attitude.  Remember the waitress, and that wench comment of yours?  Wouldn’t wash with your _Doctor_ Foster, I can guarantee it.  Natasha would have my balls.” 

He replays what he’s said so far to see whether he’s actually making sense, but Thor seems be with him still – or again -- and so he lands the final blow.  Or whatever.  

“And yeah, it’s about risk.  Which is why I think you’re really asking me for advice, right?” 

Thor nods guiltily.  

“Yes, you are right, Friend Archer.  I do not know whether my Lady … whether Jane would even wish to be with someone as different as I am from her.  And so I hesitate to declare myself to her.” 

Clint is pretty sure that Thor is sliding dangerously into _Dear Abby_ territory now, and is starting to feel hunted again.  Fortunately, a taxi pulls up on the curb beside the restaurant’s patio enclosure, and he can make out the fiery red hair inside.  _Phew._  

Time to get off one more thing, and then he’s safe -- high and dry. 

“You gotta stop thinking you’re taking a risk by being with your partner, or you’re _shit_ together, when it matters.  Take the jump.”  He considers this again as he watches Natasha get out of the cab.  

“Guess taking a risk like that is the same thing as trust, in a way.  Only it’s trust in yourself.” 

It’s not entirely clear to Clint whether Thor has gotten anything of what he’s been trying to say – hell, he’s an assassin, not a counselor, and routinely gets what amounts to an C minus in ‘inter-personal relations’ in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s psych evals.  But he gave it his best shot, didn’t laugh at the guy, and that seems to have been appreciated. 

Thor confirms as much. 

“Thank you, Friend Archer,” he says with a slow nod.  “I will think on what you have told me, and how it may apply to … my feelings for Jane Foster.” 

Clint blinks a little at Thor’s blithe mention of his feelings; not something he thinks he could ever do so readily. 

Moments later, Natasha’s small, strong hand on his shoulder sends a jolt through him – it’s been a week since they’ve even been in the same city – and he briefly reaches up to cover her fingers with his own.  

“Hey,” he says, failing to keep the smile out of his voice. 

“Hey,” she replies and gives his shoulder a squeeze as their eyes lock for a moment. 

Thor leans back in his chair and envelops them both in one of his beaming grins.  As if on cue, the waitress appears with a tray containing her Caprese salad, garlic bread and mineral water, as well as two mud pies and a double espresso. 

“My, Barton,” Natasha approves as she sits down in front of her meal.  “Your social skills are improving.  You’re almost ready to be taken out in public.”  

To Thor, she explains, “He _never_ orders vegetables.  It’s against his religion, I believe.”  

She delicately plucks a slice of basil-topped tomato and mozzarella off her fork with immaculate red lips, before pointing the fork at Clint’s mud pie.  Her mouth is still full when she asks, “You’re not planning on eating all of that, are you?” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.” 

She rolls her eyes at the hillbilly endearment.  Clint does like to play up to his carnie cliché on occasion, usually when Maria Hill is around, but Natasha pretty much had this one coming. 

As it turns out, Thor rather likes mud pie, and is beginning to eye the half piece Clint has kept for Natasha with a calculating gleam.  Besides, Clint really wants some private time with his partner, whom he hasn’t seen in a week.  Time to throw a distracting flare. 

“Don’t you have somewhere you’d rather be, Thor?  Like Tromsø?” 

“You think I should go there, now?”  

Thor looks a bit like an overgrown teenager now, that perfect blend between eager and insecure – a look Clint recognizes rather too well, as one he’s been forced to suppress as little as ten minutes ago. 

Clint shrugs.  

“Yes,” he says simply.  “You should.  Since you’re in the neighbourhood anyway.  Surprise her.  Just maybe try and find a less conspicuous place to take off from than Bethesda Terrace.  Maybe one of those rooftops would be good.” 

Thor looks up to the still-blue sky, where the hawk has now been joined by its mate in drawing lazy circles above the city.  Natasha, in the meantime, is giving Clint the ' _I expect a full explanation about all this, stat!'_ look.

Thor has clearly made up his mind and gets up, reaching for his empty beer glass before reconsidering and letting his hand fall to his side.

"You are certain that Director Fury will not object to compensating the host for this meal?"

"He won't be offered a choice," Clint nods.  "Go ahead.  Roof's a-waiting."

Of course, he'd meant for Thor to take the elevator to the top of whatever building suits his fancy, but he should have known better; it's pretty clear from his stance that the Asgardian intends to leap up instead.  So much for anonymity.  (As it turns out, Thor's little display gets Fury off the expenses hook when the manager figures out just who has been having lunch in his establishment and insists that ‘ _it's on the house – call it a New York thank you’_.  Sometimes being recognized isn't so bad.  Clint leaves a good tip for the suddenly star-struck waitress, though.)

Before he takes off for the roof Thor turns to Clint, the expression on his face serious now, as if he has made an important decision. 

“You asked earlier if I could be killed, Brother Archer.”  

He hesitates briefly, his unclouded blue eyes holding Clint’s as he speaks and his hand extending to his teammate once again.  Natasha looks from one man to the other, her slightly parted lips the only indication that she is aware that something important is about to be said. 

“It is well that you did not loosen that unfailing arrow of yours, that day in New Mexico.” 

Clint does not respond immediately, his breath having momentarily failed him in light of the magnitude of the gift he has just been given.  But then he clasps Thor’s hand with his own, watching it almost disappear in the larger man’s grip; when he speaks it is with a solemnity he doesn’t usually feel. 

“Yeah.  I’m glad too, Brother.  More than glad.”

 


	4. Battleship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to **AlliSnow** , for allowing Doreen from the cafeteria (and her meatloaf) to become shared head canon on **be_compromised**._  
>   
> 
> _Little echoes are bouncing into this chapter from some of my other stories - "Going to Ground," "Bound" and "In the Service;" "The Pool" if you squint - but it's not necessary to have read those. Mind you, I'd love it if you did! As ever, this story plays out in the quiet moments in between the spectacular alien-destroying set pieces. Here's to Joss Whedon, for showing us that there's room for such moments in the MCU, and to those of you who enjoy them as much as I do._
> 
>    
>  _A special thanks and a future glass of the very finest pinot goes to **Runawaymetaphor** and **Shenshen1977** , for offering their views on certain aspects of this chapter. Any flaws in the outcome are mine._

Even though the day is far from clear, the Manhattan skyline is visible over the horizon as a set of jagged teeth, rising from the grey sea.  

The helicarrier is stationed far enough from New York Harbor so as not to attract sightseers or pleasure craft – small gunboats patrol a three-mile perimeter for additional discouragement -- but it’s close enough to permit repair workers to be shuttled in without major logistical upheavals.  The regular choppers make for a relatively easy commute to and from Headquarters, but this is Natasha’s first visit in over a week. 

If there is one thing she has always secretly liked about Nick Fury’s pride and joy, it is the far-too-rare times when it is permitted to be a ship.  In all her time with the Red Room, Natasha never got to spend any amount of time by – let alone on – the ocean; standing on the deck of the giant vessel, feeling the wind in her hair and tasting the droplets of salty spray on her lips, always seems a bit like reclaiming a piece of her stolen childhood.  

There is just … _something_ about the vastness of the sea, the swell of the waves – that makes her feel free and alive in a way she has never been tempted to analyze more deeply.  But even now, despite the reasons that have brought her onboard, she suppresses an involuntary smile at the cries of the seagulls, creatures that couldn’t care less about Important Missions and just want someone to throw them some food -- _now._ (Some day she may just stop by the cafeteria and pick up some bread to tear apart and toss in the air, just to watch what happens.)

Now, though – and this is a new development -- the smell of the sea brings something else; it reminds her of Long Island, and the time she spent there with Clint after Manhattan.  It’s been two weeks since he left for his second mission since his reinstatement, and she is considering whether to admit that she missed him.  

What she cannot deny, though, is that she’s here to wait for the QuinJet that will bring him back from Guatemala, even though she isn’t quite sure why she came.  Or how he will react to her presence.  (“ _Think I can’t handle myself, that it?_ ”) 

A sudden movement below the surface catches her eye and she tries to focus on it, but whatever it is it’s elusive, camouflaged beneath the water’s fragmented reflections of the cloudy sky.  There it is, in the shadow of a wave … a shape, translucent and blue.  The shape pulsates and moves and suddenly there’s another, and another – hundreds of billowing globes rising from the watery depths.  

“Jellyfish.” 

The soft, familiar voice beside her startles her, and Natasha takes a quick inventory of the reasons why she may have missed the man’s approach, she who never misses a thing.  Wind + sound and air movement + seagulls = distraction.  (Variable: Wonder _._ ) 

“It’s a school of jellyfish.  I haven’t seen one of those since my parents took me on a boat trip around Cape Cod.” 

 _Banner._  

She manages not to flinch, but her grip around the railing tightens momentarily. 

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Agent Romanoff,” the wind-tousled scientist smiles sadly.  “I didn’t mean to.  I was just curious what it was that held your attention like that.” 

Natasha has already recovered and inclines her head in polite greeting; she resists turning to look at the jellyfish again and keeps her eyes on his face. 

She hasn’t seen or spoken with Banner since they parted ways after watching Thor take Loki back to Asgard.  He’s been in Kolkata, tying up loose ends in the clinic where he’d been hiding out; she’s not quite sure why she had been quite so relieved about that.  He is, after all, a nice guy.  (Mostly.) 

“Dr. Banner.  They didn’t tell me you were back,” she says, keeping her voice neutral. 

He chuckles, as he remembers a previous conversation about Nick Fury’s under-developed communication skills.  

“Guess they _still_ don’t tell you everything.” 

He gives her a sideways glance, as if to check whether his joke registered; it isn’t hard for Natasha to successfully pretend that it didn’t.  Truth be told, she doesn’t really feel like socializing – but _that_ fact doesn’t seem to transmit quite so well, or else Banner is ignoring the neon signs.  He blithely forges on. 

“I came in on one of your jets a little while ago.  Safer that way, and S.H.I.E.L.D. offered.  Just came out for some fresh air; it’s been a long flight.  But, please.  Call me Bruce.” 

It makes sense to do so, she supposes – she has done it once before, _in extremis_ , trying to recall him to his own self-- and so she nods, but makes no effort to pick up the conversation.  He does instead, with a vague gesture at the deck around them. 

“It looks like they’ve been busy.  Is it ready to fly again yet?” 

She turns around fully now, her back to the railing, and allows her senses to be filled with the clanging of metal on metal and the ozone-rich scent of welding torches that waft in on the wind.  

“This afternoon,” she replies.  “Repairs are complete.  What they’re doing now is last minute checks, making sure nothing pops off and falls on New York.” 

Banner’s eyes fix on a bank of windows where the colour of the surrounding metal plates is slightly mismatched – obviously recent replacements -- and he frowns briefly, as if he is trying to remember (or forget?) something.  

“It all seems pretty unreal now, doesn’t it?” 

He says it matter-of-factly, and she doesn’t have to ask what he is talking about. 

_That day._

The day he turned into the monster, not once, but twice.  The first time had been right here, on this ship; eventually the green raging creature he had become jumped out through that now-repaired bank of windows.  She herself had been left a shaking mess, cowering under a bulkhead, all her training, fearlessness and confidence gone with the wind in her lungs. 

The fact that she knows what day he is talking about doesn’t mean that she wants to do so – although continued failure to respond to his efforts at friendly conversation would be impolite.  The Black Widow can be as abrasive as she can be seductive, but Banner does not deserve her sting. 

“It must seem unreal now, especially if you’ve been in Kolkata all this time,” she offers, hoping to steer the discussion into a safer direction.  “I heard you’d gone back there.” 

Bruce gives her a lingering look. 

“Yeah, I did.  I left in bit of a hurry, before.”  The ‘ _but you know that’_ remains unspoken; Banner, too, has no wish to be rude.  “Had some loose ends to tie up.” 

“You’re not going back again, then?”  

She’s actually interested now, although why, she’s not sure.  Professional reasons, so she’ll know where to find him the next time Fury needs her to ... bring him in?  _Intel on whether and where she has to watch her back._  

“Nah.  Stark offered me …” 

“A job?”  

Natasha quirks an eyebrow as she interjects, welcoming the opportunity to move the conversation onto safe ground.Ironman always makes for a good talking point, or three; infinitely preferable to talking about Manhattan, and the one Banner calls The Other Guy.  (Even he won’t name the monster.)

Bruce shakes his head, smiling a little.  

“No, not exactly.  He’s giving me unlimited use of his fabled R&D facilities though, a place to stay, and unbreakable lab equipment.  Candy land, he calls it, and he’s not wrong.  I don’t think he’ll pay me though.  At least he hasn’t mentioned it.  But the Stark Industries credit card apparently covers Chinese takeout so I’ll be okay.” 

An involuntary “Not you too?” crosses Natasha’s lips before she can bite it back – she’s not sure whether it’s a response to the scientist’s easy-going style, or because her partner had been on her mind when Banner had interrupted her thoughts.  Either way, the eyebrow he quirks at her requires an explanation. 

“Clint lives on top of a 24-hour Chinese takeout; it’s practically all he ever eats, except for steak, hamburgers and sweet stuff.  It’s why he picked the apartment.” 

Banner nods in understanding.  

“A decent stir fry is one of life’s undiluted pleasures.  And yes, I remember him offering up his apartment … after the battle.  I might have said yes, had I known.  Sure would have beaten Stark’s shawarma.  How is Agent Barton, anyway?  Is he here with you?” 

Natasha just shakes her head.  

“No.  He’s due in from mission in a little while, on one of the Quinjets.” 

“And you’re here to greet him?  That’s nice.”  

The congenial smile doesn’t fool her for a second.  Banner’s face is an open book, and he is quite obviously searching her face for confirmation of a theory -- in this case, she assumes, on the nature of the relationship between the two human members of his ‘team’.  

There’s no reason anymore to hold back on that point.  With Steve, Thor and Stark already in the picture, refusing Banner the corroboration he is looking for would be just rude.  And so Natasha smiles her brightest, most artless smile. 

“As a matter of fact, I am.  I haven’t seen him for two weeks.” 

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, too,” Bruce says, and there’s a wistful catch in his voice that makes her turn her full attention on him for the first time since he disrupted her thoughts.  

Natasha would be lying to herself if she were to claim that she has spent a lot of time contemplating Dr. Bruce Banner.  His rampaging alter ego, yes – that has been present in her nightmares far too often since the day the Hulk chased her through the bowels of this very ship.  But Banner himself?  

It’s odd, really; they had spent countless hours together on the flight back from Kolkata -- silent hours, but enough of them that he should have left an impression in his own right.  Then there’d been the time on the carrier, when Banner was searching for the gamma signatures to help locate Loki (and Clint).  But all the time she spent with the self-effacing genius had been erased by his transformation, his features forever morphing in her mind, turning green -- his eyes bulging, then dulling …  

She suppresses the thoughts and forces herself to look fully into those eyes now.  They hold more than a touch of sadness – not the angry stare of a mindless beast, but the eyes of a haunted man.  

They are also the eyes of a very perceptive man.  One who did not miss her fingers clenching around the rail at the sound of his voice. 

“You know, I never really did get the chance to apologize.” 

He speaks into her silence as if it was his to break, and she feels a momentary flash of anger – at him for seizing the floor again; at herself, for allowing him to take it.  She never fails in this normally, never yields the give and take of conversation to another’s reins.  

And yet, here he is, trying for the second time to bring her back to … _that day_. 

“You did already,” she says dismissively, and there’s no way he can ignore that tone.  (Is there?)  “In New York.  We’re good.”  

He looks as if he is about to demur, clearly he wants to talk about what happened between them.  Between her and … the _other_ Bruce Banner.  Maybe he derives some self-flagellating satisfaction out of hearing about the terror he instills when he loses control, and his self?  Whatever it is he wants, she is not prepared to give it to him in the coin of her own memories. 

Natasha Romanoff can conduct a conversation like Simon Rattle does the Berlin Philharmonic, with a masterful blend of artistry, accuracy and authority.  The tools at her disposal range from furtive glances and fingertips lightly placed on an arm, to clever interpolations, outright lies and full-out confrontation – and everything in between.  She can recognize, and counter, an unwanted direction from a mile away and knows that when deterrence fails, diversion is the next best course of action.  Collateral damage and reparations owing to third parties can be addressed in due course.  

Her tone reverts back to _polite conversation_ , and she musters an artless smile. 

“You haven’t been back to the carrier since then, have you?  It’ll be Clint’s first time back today, too, since his visit to medical bay that night.” 

She watches Banner’s face, grateful for the spray in the breeze that turns blinking into a necessity and makes it unnecessary for her to control her tells, including any residual guilt she may be suppressing for dragging Clint back into the conversation.  As it turns out, Banner takes the bait, rather more thoroughly than she had planned.  Perhaps she misread him, and he is grateful for the out as well? 

“Really?  But I thought you said he’s coming back from a mission, so I’d assumed ...” 

“He’s been dealing with S.H.I.E.L.D. through the New York Headquarters.  The Council banned him from the carrier pending their so-called investigation.”  There is no need to construct the contempt that now laces her voice.  “And since that’s been lifted, well, there … just wasn’t any call for him to come out here.” 

No need to mention the still-haunted look on Clint’s face whenever the carrier comes up in conversation.  Despite the hard-wrung letters of condolence he had written to the families of each of the agents and support staff who died or was injured in the attack he had orchestrated on Loki’s behalf, he had managed to find excuse after excuse not to return to the ship and face the survivors.  Even today’s landing was not planned – it has been the result of a last-minute change, due to scheduling requirements for the Quinjet. 

Natasha had taken the next chopper to the ship. 

Banner squints into the breeze, his eyes focused on the glare of a welding torch.  Most of the workers are packing up their kit, in preparation for lift-off. 

“Well, if she gets to fly again today, at least his timing is good in that respect.”  And then he adds, a little more softly – so softly that she has a hard time hearing him over the wind – “As good as it ever gets in these things.” 

“ _These things_?”  

Natasha could have played the ingénue, of course, but to do so would just demean them both; accordingly, her tone isn’t a question so much as it is an invitation to say more.  Banner had, after all, been one of the key players in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s efforts to track the tesseract, and knows to the last decimal the extent to which a coerced Barton had been in charge of Loki’s plans.  He also knows first-hand of the impact – direct and indirect – of Hawkeye’s attack on the carrier.  

He gives her an appreciative half grin, and takes up the challenge. 

“You know.  Going back to a place where you made a mess of things.  Me, I haven’t been north of Central Park in over two years.  I guess Agent Barton knows the feeling.”  

And maybe because she isn’t saying anything, isn’t denying it -- or maybe for other reasons altogether -- he digs deeper.  

“How’s he holding up?  Apart from that so-called dinner, I never really got the chance to meet him.  At least, not as … you know.  _Me_.”  

“He’s fine.”  

Suddenly, using her partner’s return to deflect Banner’s interest in talking about their own issues feels like a betrayal.  Clint might well understand and give his approval – he has, after all, taken bullets for her in the past -- but that doesn’t make it right.  

But Banner will not be thrown off his scent again.  He lets out a half-chuckle, half-snort, the kind reserved for a child who has told a particularly egregious fib about how the homework got eaten _this_ time. 

“Really.  He’s _fine_.  And that’s why you’re here now, waiting for him.” 

Natasha looks over the railing, searching the waves for those jellyfish but they’ve gone deep again; all there is to be seen in the waters now is a reflection of the grey sky, disrupted by the occasional spray.  It suddenly occurs to her that perhaps she can salvage something here and make up to Clint the fact that she’d essentially used him as a distracting flare.  After all, she’s talking to a man who knows _exactly_ what it’s like to wake up in anguish amid bodies and smoking ruins of his own creation; he may have useful insights to share. 

She turns back to Banner and lets him see her face at its most open, its most unguarded; she notices his eyes widen in recognition that the tenor of their conversation is about to change. 

“Well, he _says_ he’s fine.  And he’s getting better, in many respects.  But this …” 

She makes a vague gesture that encompasses the entire ship. 

“What happened here, for Clint, was far worse than Stuttgart, which was bad enough.  This is where his friends and colleagues died, people he worked with.”  

 _Phil._   

“People here … they trusted him.” 

“And they don’t anymore?” 

Natasha’s eyes darken with unconcealed anger. 

“The Council’s so-called _investigation_ took five weeks.  Everybody here knows they were using Clint to distract attention from their order to deploy the nuke, but these things still take their toll.  The fact that Hill basically called the Council down on Clint’s head herself didn’t help.” 

Banner gives this some thought. 

“Surely the story is out now that not only isn’t he responsible for what happened to him, and what happened here, but that he played a major role in …” he gives a slightly embarrassed chuckle, “ … saving the planet.  Or at least mid-town Manhattan.” 

_No one said it was rational._

“Is that why you went Kolkata, after you took out the monster that General Ross created?  You said you _broke Harlem._   What you did is mess it up a little, while saving it from worse.  No reason for you to run and hide then, was there?” 

She knows it isn’t entirely fair, confronting Banner with his fears after she so very carefully maneuvered around addressing her own, but at this point she really just wants to know.  Maybe the answer will tell her something about Clint, and the red that he clearly still sees in his ledger. 

Banner casts a long look at the sky, where the clouds are starting to part and some late afternoon sunshine seems to be imminent.  The welders have packed their tools; the gulls have long since given up on any chance that the two humans remaining on the deck will provide them with food. 

“Things aren’t always that simple, Miss Romanoff.  There are … other complications.  And some things can’t be fixed with a good rationalization and a civic service medal.  I’m sure Agent Barton understands that.  It takes time … and trust.  Time’s the easy part.” 

Is it betraying a confidence to tell Banner that his words are eerily similar to things Clint has told her himself, when she was trying to tell him he was not at fault over Coulson’s death? _‘Phil deserves better than me saying yeah, I only killed him by proxy and then I helped save Manhattan, so it’s okay.’_   

Yes, it would be a betrayal.  But she can talk about her side of things.  

“Clint would agree with you, I think, especially when it comes to the trust part.  As for time, he’s getting better, but he’s not quite there yet.  We ... help each other out, with the nightmares.” 

Bruce turns to her now and looks her straight in the eye, the sorrow unmistakable. 

“He’s a lucky man, Miss Romanoff.” 

“Natasha.  It’s Natasha, Bruce.  And yes, we both are.  Lucky, I mean.” 

Bruce purses his lips; lost in his own thoughts, maybe he hadn’t registered the -- albeit rather indirect -- confession she’s just made. 

He had.  

“As I tried to say earlier, I’m sorry.  I know I probably scared the hell out of you.” 

This time, she won’t deny him what he obviously needs to hear, but she underscores her confession with a self-deprecating laugh. 

“Yes, I guess you did.  I’m not used to being … “ _Frightened like a child?  Panic-stricken?  Reduced to a quivering, catatonic mess?_   “… that affected by a chase.  It’s a good thing Thor showed up when he did.” 

“I don’t actually remember the details,” Bruce says, still holding her eyes.  “I never do.  Just … the rage, directed at something.  Usually the first thing that gets in the way.” 

If he wants her to know that it wasn’t personal, well, she’d figured that out before he had finished his transformation.  He’d fought it, fought so hard, knowing what would happen. 

“It’s okay.”  

His determined headshake tells her more than he probably thinks.  Much like Clint, the scientist seems unwilling -- or unable? -- to accept absolution, however logical or willingly given.  Maybe it just needs to come from the right source? 

She decides to elaborate, because like Clint, he deserves no less. 

“No, really.  The fact that I still see green on occasion…” -- he winces at that -- “… doesn’t mean that there’s any blame.  It is what it is.  And yes, I was scared.  More scared than I’ve ever been in my life.”  

There.  It’s out _._   And, surprisingly, it wasn’t all that hard.  The next bit is even easier. 

“I’m still working on accepting that, but it’s got nothing to do with you, Bruce.  _Nothing_.  Like I told Clint, we’re into a time of magic and … _monsters –_ and I don’t mean just the Hulk here – and we need to adapt to that.  All of us.  Including you and me.  And Clint.” 

Her little speech is interrupted by three blaring sirens; the warning that the helicarrier will be lifting off in five minutes’ time.  The sound is followed almost immediately by the whine of the four enormous engines starting up; Clint’s Quinjet will have to dock on the carrier while it’s in flight. 

“Better head inside,” she says matter-of-factly, turning without checking that he is following her.  He does, and so she adds as she goes. 

“But whether you want to accept it or not, we’re all better off – _not worse_ \-- for what the Hulk is capable off.  Without you, Loki would have won.  You need to forgive yourself for things that aren’t under your control.” 

“Is that what you tell Agent Barton?  And does he believe you, that collateral damage is irrelevant?  Is that why he hasn’t been back here on the carrier?” 

They’ve come full circle, but this time Bruce doesn’t seem to expect an answer, despite the wearily cynical undercurrent in his voice.  Maybe that’s a form of progress.  

Once they’re inside and on the bridge, he continues conversationally, “You know, they’re selling t-shirts now, with pictures of me smashing bits of Park Avenue and slogans like _Let’s hear it for urban planning_?” 

“Interesting,” is all Natasha will say, but she’s not particularly fazed.  S.H.I.E.L.D. has been spending considerable resources keeping her and Clint out of the media; it wouldn’t surprise her if the t-shirt campaign is part of Nick Fury’s plan to keep the focus on the more visible members of the Avengers.  

With Clint not due for another forty-five minutes at least, neither of them has anything to do for the next little while.  Natasha figures she may as well be polite, besides she could use a pick-me-up.  Not being forced to listen to disingenuous or insincere inquiries about Clint’s wellbeing will be a bonus. 

“Coffee?” she asks with a smile.

 

…..

 

Bruce follows Natasha across the bridge, resolutely clamping down on the growling unease in his head that stirs at the sight of banks of flashing monitors, and the hive-like activity of armed men and women in black buzzing amongst the instrument panels.   

 _Analysis,_ he reminds the presence in his head.  _Analysis is a good thing.  Analysis reduces threat.  No threat now._   

The sensation ebbs as suddenly as it arose, and his eyes briefly fix on Maria Hill who is standing in the command centre, supervising the ship’s first lift-off in nearly three months.  He can feel her cool eyes following him as he and Romanoff head for a corridor. 

The floor and the walls of the ship are starting to hum with the vibrations caused by the main engines.  It’s a familiar sensation -- from the time he’d spent here previously, arguing with Stark, calibrating and surveying the state-of-the-art equipment, examining Loki’s scepter, until …  

The presence in his mind stirs at the memories.  _It’s okay.  You’re fine.  We’re fine._  

Romanoff walks at a good clip; after fifteen hours on a small plane, he has to make an effort to keep up but it feels good to stretch his legs.  She walks right by the little coffee room where agents keep their own supplies for after hours – he’d been told by Hill in no uncertain term that this was for S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel only -- and takes a turn towards the cafeteria he never had the time to visit before. 

The place is surprisingly bright and open, for an organization he associates with shadows and darkness.  A couple of dozen non-descript tables are arranged alongside a long bank of windows; a number of them are occupied by S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel on break.  The fact that such a thing apparently exists must mean that crisis mode is not a ubiquitous feature on the ship, despite the buzz on the bridge.  

As Bruce watches, the view through the window changes to a swirling bank of white clouds and mist, which resolves into a steely blue as the ship climbs.  He does a quick calculation of the rate of ascent in his head based on what he sees; it’s the same as the first time he was onboard.  All is well with the newly recommissioned engines and the voice in his head purrs its contentment. 

Romanoff heads straight for the counter.  It’s presided over by a diminutive but formidable-looking seventy-something black woman, whose tightly curled grey hair is only half-hidden under a white cap.  That and her retro apron would make Steve Rogers feel right at home.  Bruce can’t help but think that she borrowed the look from some movie about the 1950s American South; it makes sense, in this place where people put on personalities as easily as others might a dinner jacket.  Probably this woman was an agent herself back in the day, couldn’t let things go and found herself a niche in retirement.  (Those overhead pans look lethal, and she probably knows how to wield them.) 

“Natasha, honey!” the woman drawls as Romanoff stands in front of her.  _Honey?_   “The usual, I presume?” 

Romanoff’s face lights up in a genuine smile that makes her face look younger than Bruce has ever seen it, and nods.  

“Yes, thank you, Doreen.  Here, I’d like you to meet Dr. Bruce Banner.  He’s a friend.  Bruce, this is Doreen Lynch.” 

Bruce has rarely felt as scrutinized by human eyes as he has at that moment, a bit like allowing a German shepherd to sniff your hand.  He doesn’t doubt that without Romanoff’s smiling introduction, he’d be standing here for hours, waiting for coffee that would never come. 

“Dr. Banner,” Doreen says, glaring at him a little as she pours boiling water over a teabag, from a metal box marked ‘NR’.  “I know who you are.  If you decide to go on a rampage, do it on the bridge, or in the bays where they keep those infernal planes.  Not here.” 

Bruce doesn’t quite know what to make of this, but disagreement is probably not an option.  He has a brief vision of a small figure in the Other Guy’s path, dressed in a white apron and wielding a frying pan – like that famous scene of the student with the brief case and the shopping bags, staring down a row of tanks in Tiananmen Square.  He nods deferentially. 

“No worries, Ms Lynch.  I promise to behave.” 

It was obviously the right thing to say; Doreen disengages the flint in her eyes as rapidly as it had appeared.  

“And you want …?” 

“Coffee?”  Bruce asks hopefully.  “Black, please.” 

The simplicity of his request seems to please Doreen, and she bustles over to tap a big urn with a promising Starbucks logo.  Before handing over the two mugs, though, she disappears in the back; when she returns, she is carrying a plate with four pieces of baklava.  Natasha looks at the offering with a raised eyebrow. 

“Thanks,” she says, “but I didn’t ask for …” 

“You never do, honey.  But you always eat his, and he’s not here, so you might as well eat them before they go stale.” 

There’s a funny tone in Doreen’s voice, one that Bruce can’t quite identify but it sounds like bitterness.  But the baklava look damn good, and he suddenly realizes that a sugar hit wouldn’t be such a bad thing.  Sweets are … _calming.  Aren’t they?_  

“Thank you, we’ll be very happy to have those,” he responds before Natasha can and grabs the plate. 

They settle at a table by the window, Romanoff taking the spot with sightlines to the whole room.  Her choice leaves Bruce with the view although he doesn’t think the arrangement has anything to do with courtesy.  The remaining clouds have dissolved and there’s a glint coming off the sea below; with the sun low and reddening, small reflections in the glass towers on the horizon blaze brightly, as if the city is on fire – again.  _Sunset.  Not fire._  

He quickly stirs some sugar in his coffee and takes a deep sip.  It’s not great, but he’s had worse. 

“Doreen seems … like a character,” he says. 

Natasha nods.  “She runs the ship, despite what Nick Fury likes to think.  Just don’t ever have her meatloaf.  Clint says if Stark was still in the weapons business, he’d pay a fortune for the recipe.” 

They sit and sip their drinks in silence for a moment when a shadow crosses the window, followed by the slightly delayed scream of a jet engine.  Natasha doesn’t flinch, but Bruce notices her surreptitiously checking her watch as she reaches for a pastry.   _Barton’s QuinJet._  

“If you want to leave …” 

Her green eyes lift to his, and a small frown creases the flawless forehead.  _Of course._   Did he really think the Black Widow would up and run into the arms of her partner in the docking bay? 

“He’s not exactly expecting me,” she says, and Bruce thinks he detects the slightest hint of uncertainty in her voice.  

“I see,” he says, and he does.  He really does.  Support can be a two-edged sword, both helpful and dangerous, and not always wanted.  ( _Betty …_ )  And so he adds, in as neutral a tone as he can muster, “I’m sure he’ll be glad to find that you happen to be here.” 

Is what crosses her features now a hint of annoyance, a grateful smile, or just a flicker of pleasure at the feeling of the pastry in her fingers?  Reading the Black Widow can be a bit like looking at a holograph, Bruce finds; what you see very much depends on the angle and the light, or else whatever it is she wants you to see.  She says nothing, just pops the pastry in her mouth, and delicately licks the syrup off her fingers before wiping them on a napkin. 

One of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s agents wanders by, providing a welcome distraction with a spot of shoptalk.  The stitching on his black shirt reads _Sitwell_ , and he seems intent on picking Romanoff’s brain over some place or other in Moldova where she’s apparently recently been, and he’s headed for his next mission.  

Bruce takes it as a sign of acceptance -- rather than disregard of security protocols -- that Sitwell is asking in his presence.  He’s not sure how he should feel about that; after all, he isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. and not even sure why he’s come back to New York to begin with.  Stark’s offer of unlimited research?  Rogers’ request to join his ‘team’?  The prospect of belonging to something bigger, like Romanoff apparently does? 

In the meantime, he is content to sip his coffee and watching the comings and goings around him.  It really has been a long flight, and the caffeine seems to be loosening some nods in his brain.  The susurrations of small talk are comforting after the growl of the QuinJet’s engine and before that, the endless blaring of horns, the bleating of neglected cows and the millions of voices of Kolkata. 

But then, absolute silence falls over the room and heads turn towards the entrance. 

Romanoff’s head snaps up; her hands reach for her weapons but still almost immediately.  Sitwell turns to have a look, and Bruce himself twists sideways in his seat to follow the dozen or so pairs of eyes now fixed on the dark figure striding into the neon brightness. 

 _Hawkeye._  

Bruce takes in the black tac gear, the guns strapped to Barton’s thighs, and the quiver and bow slung over his back.  His bare arms are grimy; not as bad as after Manhattan, but he must have come in right off his mission.  He certainly didn’t stop off in his quarters to change.  Barton’s intense eyes sweep the room, as if he’s assessing a nest of vipers for possible attack vectors, and there is an unmistakable tension in the set of his jaw.  His fingers flex and twitch a little as he takes in the number of hostile stares.   

Bruce has, in moments of downtime, found himself resenting the impressive gear his fellow fighters get to wear, while he is stuck in ripped pants (that cover his privates if he’s lucky).  But now he is startled into conceding that the sense of lethal danger Clint Barton exudes comes not from his outfit, nor even from the weapons he carries.  No, it emanates purely from the way the man carries himself:  a tightly controlled force, ready to explode into violence. 

A roar rips through Bruce’s head as the Other Guy evidently agrees; from one moment to the next, his world narrows to wrestling that volcanic rage into submission.  

 _Friendly,_ he snarls at the inarticulate churning, like King Lear shouting at the ocean, and with about as much effect.   _Friendly.  We fight together._

Despite the hours the Hulk and Hawkeye spent together in the city canyons of Manhattan -- despite the end in Stark’s demolished living room, pointing their united forces at Loki, the snarling in Bruce’s head refuses to abate.  There is no recognition beyond the certainty that the man in the middle of the room spells danger. 

Bruce’s vision starts to blur.  With what clarity remains inside his mind he feels Natasha beginning to recoil, sees her lifting herself out of her seat – there’s a screeching sound as it slides across the floor -- and backing up towards the window.  With the increased acuity of his senses he can hear her guns sliding out of their holster. 

Harder.  He needs to try … harder…  _Down.  Stay … down._  

Bruce’s hand grips the edge of the table in an effort to hold on to something solid, to create a reality away from the vortex in his brain.  Out of instinct he turns to look at Barton, whose gaze has now arrested on Romanoff’s semi-crouched position, on the weapons in her hands.  The archer’s eyes turn to steel as he whips out his bow and nocks an arrow with near-inhuman speed.   

Bruce squeezes his own eyes shut, acknowledging the mistake he just made.  See no evil …  _No threat._ Breathe. _Not today.  Not to you._ Breathe _.  Not to … us._ Breathe. _Friendly._ Breathe. _My friend. Your friend.  Our friend …_ Breathe, dammit! 

Pulse by beating pulse, breath by torturous breath, he manages to clamp down on the noise and his mind starts to clear of the red fog.  He opens his eyes, but turns to the window so he won’t have to look at Barton, not yet; not wishing his senses to undermine the message his mind has worked so hard to deliver, and not wanting to court a resurgence of that instinctive … protective wrath.  

Luckily, there is enough evening sun left that reflections in the window are limited. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, as if to himself – but not, not really.  “Okay now.  Calm down.”  And then, more to himself than to anyone else, “ _Please._ ”  

He opens his eyes and reaches for this coffee cup, in an attempt to prove to himself that all is well; surprisingly, the mundane gesture seems to have an effect on others, too.  Natasha relaxes a fraction and he can see her nod tensely to Barton somewhere behind him.  He does not, however, hear the sound of an arrow being returned to the quiver. 

Sitwell, who has been close enough to Bruce to realize exactly what was happening, is as white as a sheet.  Nonetheless, he is fully in control of his faculties, aware of another danger. 

“Stand down everyone -- all clear!” he barks into the room at large.  

It is only when he finally turns around that Bruce notices what else has been playing out behind his back: half a dozen of the S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel have drawn their weapons, but it’s not him that they are aimed at.  

The guns are all pointed at Barton. 

Apparently, to his colleagues the archer’s appearance in their midst, armed to the teeth, moments later pointing an arrow in the direction of Sitwell and Romanoff and their guest, could have meant only one thing: _Loki’s pawn had returned._   

Barton is a black sculpture in the middle of the room – bow drawn, knees slightly flexed, deceptively relaxed, nothing less than a silent and tightly sprung killing machine, ready to be unleashed.  The last time Bruce has seen Hawkeye like this was on the streets of Manhattan, when he’d arrived on that borrowed bike – moments before summoning the monster.  

A shiver of recognition runs through him.  _Friend_ , he mutters again to that rumbling presence, but it doesn’t seem so necessary now; the instinct seem to want to protect, not harm. _Does the Hulk remember after all?_  

The guns are lowered slowly, one by one; some to hissed comments from agents who hadn’t drawn their own.  Clearly, the room is divided among those who had trusted Hawkeye to point his arrow at a real or perceived danger in the room (after all, Romanoff had drawn her guns too, and not at him) and those prepared to believe the worst. 

Barton himself doesn’t twitch; only his intense, blazing eyes move as they keep scanning the room.  Sitwell barks an order to one of the younger agents, whose scowling features suggest more than mere reluctance to stand down from a threat.  When the man finally holsters his gun, it’s with a contemptuous spit.  Bruce can read the undisguised anger in Sitwell’s face; the man may well be out of a job tomorrow. 

Only when the last gun is down does Barton release his bowstring, and slide his arrow back in his quiver.  If there is a change in his face, Bruce doesn’t see it.  

Despite the passing of the imminent danger, the room seems deprived of oxygen; no one dares take a deep breath -- until the silence is shattered by a voice, a little hoarse and laced with a distinctive Alabama twang. 

“ _Clinton Francis Barton!_ ”  

The shout carries clear across the room, and Barton’s head snaps around, a split second ahead of anyone else’s.  Classic reaction to hearing one’s own name _,_ Bruce notes, and briefly wonders whether the Hulk would share that trait.  (Who’d be prepared to find out?  And why this sudden interest in studying the Other Guy’s responses?) 

“What the _hell_ were you thinking, Hawkeye?” 

A pained shadow crosses Barton’s face but quickly resolves into something else, as Doreen Lynch emerges from behind the counter and comes at him full tilt.  

“ _Three months_!” she cries as she grabs him by the arms and starts shaking him, utterly ignoring the bow in his hand and the dirt on his arms.  “Three _months_ since you helped save the world, and you _dare_ not come here so we can say thank you in person?  Aren’t we good enough for you anymore, Mr. Avenger, sir?”  

And then she practically throws herself at Barton’s chest, leaving him little choice but to put his own arms around her and rest his chin on her head.  She looks up briefly and whispers something, obviously meant only for his ears, which causes him to squeeze her a little tighter and to plant a kiss in her hair as he closes his eyes for a moment.  

The residual whispers in Bruce’s mind cease altogether when Sitwell defuses much of the remaining tension in the room with a snort, perfectly pitched to project across the room. 

“Yeah, Barton,” he says.  “About time you show your sorry ass on this ship.  Doreen’s been forcing us all to eat those goddamn baklavas she’s been making for you every day, hoping you’d show up.  Getting sick of the fucking things, I am.” 

Barton gamely picks up the ball. 

“Did anyone say baklava?”  

Consummate professional that he is, his voice betrays not even a fraction of the tension that Bruce knows it must still hold.  The archer lets go of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cafeteria factotum, takes one of her wizened hands into his own and drops a kiss on her wrist.  

“Doreen Petunia Lynch, Queen of the Pastries.  Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?” 

A few of the observers actually chuckle, a little nervously perhaps but genuinely, and just like _that_ the strain is gone from people’s faces.  Doreen swats Barton on the arm with an _aw, shucks_ motion and disappears behind the counter, muttering something about the ghastly middle names he keeps inflicting on her, and why does she even bother with him.  Bruce has the distinct impression that variations of this exchange have played out a few dozen times over the years, and that most of those present have witnessed it once or twice. 

Minutes later, carrying a mug of steaming coffee and a plate piled high with baklava, bow over his shoulder and ignoring the other agents in the room – more out of habit than resentment, Bruce suspects -- Barton shows up at their table with a “D’you mind?”  Without waiting for an answer, he sets the plate and cup down on the table and drops his bow and quiver on the floor beside it.  

It’s pretty clear to Bruce that when Barton pulls up the chair across from him he is laying claim to the same strategic vantage point that Romanoff had, but more than that – he’s quite deliberately putting his body between her and … the Other Guy, should he wish to try for another appearance.  He gives a little approving nod to show that the move is not lost on him, and Barton flashes him a slightly apologetic grin in return. 

But it’s the next thing that surprises Bruce – and, it appears, everyone else in the room.  Just before he actually sits down, Barton reaches for Natasha’s chin and tilts up her head.  He searches her eyes for something and when he finds it – approval?  consent? – claims her mouth with a full and not particularly chaste kiss. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he whispers, holding her eyes with his own for a moment.  There is something else in his voice, but Bruce doesn’t want to examine that too closely; it’s been too long since he himself has heard that tone.  

Where the room had been filled with an uneasy silence, suddenly it starts to buzz, almost like someone flipped a switch.  Sitwell is the first to find his voice.  

“Hey thanks for that, man,” he drawls and then sighs happily.  “Miyazaki owes me fifty bucks.” 

Bruce watches with interest much of the remaining intensity draining from Barton’s face as he slides into the seat beside Natasha.  His bow and quiver remain within easy reach by his feet, though, just like her Glocks stay on her hips; it strikes him as absolute truth that neither of his two companions will ever completely shed their professional skin. 

“That’s it – fifty bucks?”  Barton arches an eyebrow in mock indignation.  “Oh well.  Better’n nothing, I guess.  And you’re welcome.”  

His voice takes on a surprisingly warm tone.  “Thanks for calling off the dogs just now, Jasper.” 

Sitwell just shrugs, and manages a grin.  

“All in a day’s work, man.  We just fixed the place up, and Doreen would make meatloaf for a _month_ if someone were to shoot it up again.  Even if that someone was you.” 

He turns to Bruce and adds in a conspiratorial voice, “Doreen’s been fangirling over Hawkeye since the day he showed up at S.H.I.E.L.D., but I suspect even she has her tolerance limits.”  More seriously, he says,  “Glad to see you back up here, Clint.  Really.  We missed you.” 

Barton gives him a small, but genuine smile, and Bruce can’t help but envy their apparently easy – and sincere -- camaraderie. 

“Doubt that applies to everybody,” the archer says, a little bitterly, but Sitwell just waves him off. 

“Fuck ‘em, Clint.  They better get over it, and soon.  You saved the world, man.  You, Widow and the Doc here, and those other guys.  That should count for more than shit you had absolutely no control over.” 

“You think?” 

Natasha has remained quiet -- content not to draw too much of her partner’s attention to her presence, Bruce suspects.  Whatever she has to say to him, if it’s important, she likely won’t do so in front of Sitwell; she’s far too private for that.  But the look she gives the senior agent is one of approval, and as much of a dismissal as if she’d put it into words – polite, grateful, and firm.  _Thanks for your help; we can take it from here now._ He gets the hint. 

“Anyway, got stuff to do, mission to prep, that sort of thing.  I’ll leave the lot of you to the avenging business.  Have a good evening.”  

And with that, he leaves, giving a quick wave to Doreen and scattering glares among a few of the other agents as he goes.  There’s a moment of awkward silence at the table which Bruce decides is his to break, if only because he feels that he owes it to Natasha. 

“Sorry about the alarm bells there.  Something about the tension in the room when Agent Barton came in here all kitted out for war.  That kind of thing sets him off sometimes, and then … things snowballed from there, I guess.” 

“But you got it … _him_ under control pretty quickly.  That’s good,” Natasha responds., glossing over the other elements of Bruce’s comment.  “Isn’t it?” 

Bruce turns his coffee cup around and around in his hand; Barton watches him carefully out of the corner of his eyes, even as he digs into his baklava like a starving man and washes each down with a deep sip of coffee.  

“Maybe it’s getting easier.  I finally I got him to remember that he fought with Hawkeye … Agent Barton before.  That seems to have mattered.” 

“Please call me Clint.  Unless you want to stay Doctor Banner,” Barton … Clint says around his last baklava.  He starts to lick the syrup off his fingers in a gesture that reminds Bruce curiously of Natasha – until he remembers the state of his hands and pulls a grimace and wipes them off on his uniform instead.  He ploughs right on. 

“Maybe that’s the other secret.  Tasha told me about _him_ … protecting you.  Maybe that’s _all_ the Hulk does.  So you can keep him down when he believes there’s friends that can protect you, and when there’s no need for his … _your_ anger.” 

Bruce stares thoughtfully into his coffee cup.  “It’d be nice if it were that simple.  But yes, maybe I can learn more about controlling him.  It’s a risk, though.” 

“Trust is not an easy thing to learn.  I know,” Natasha says softly.  “But it’s a risk worth taking,” 

For a while, the three stay silent; Barton … Clint gets up to replenish his coffee.  When he returns, Natasha resumes the conversation.  

“Why did you turn up in the cafeteria in full battle gear, anyway?  Normally you’d go to your quarters to change first.”  

Clint shrugs. 

“Acute caffeine deprivation.  Mission went south towards the end, no time to get civilized before exfil.  Peterson is a nice guy, but as a handler …”  His voice trails off for a moment, and his eyes darken.  “Let’s just say, to top it all off, there wasn’t any coffee on the QuinJet.” 

Natasha snorts.  “Poor baby.  Bet he won’t make that mistake again.” 

Barton’s eyes gleam a little, and he shakes his head.  “So I went to the coffee room to grab a cup and take it to my quarters.  But since I haven’t been here for a while, my own stash is gone.  And after that stunt she pulled with the Council, Hill’s locked up her Nespresso, ‘coz she knows I’d consider it fair game.  So here I am.” 

He remains silent for a moment, then fixes Bruce with a disconcertingly frank gaze.  “Besides, one of the mechanics told me you were here, Tash.  With the Doctor.” 

Natasha’s eyes remain cool, but there’s a fire behind them, carefully banked. 

“And you waltzed straight in here, in case I needed protectingfrom Bruce?  No wonder the Hulk sensed a threat.” 

Clint is less than pleased at the insinuation, and ready to answer fire with fire. 

“And you came onboard at this precise time why, exactly, Natasha?” he challenges softly.  “To make sure people wouldn’t be mean to me?” 

The man is no fool, and Bruce can practically feel Natasha bristle defensively.  An early intervention is probably warranted, or else Sitwell may yet have to relinquish his claim on the fifty bucks. 

“Let’s keep the finger pointing to the morons with the guns, guys.”  Bruce nods vaguely towards the other side of the cafeteria, where the man singled out for Sitwell’s attention is still trying to justify himself to his colleagues.  “Looks like we all have our ideas about how to protect ourselves, and each other.” 

He gives his companions a meaningful look.  “Let’s just make sure we don’t need to do it amongst each other.” 

Clint seems to agree, and nods slowly.  

“Yeah, guess the bottom line is, as long as we all keep our shit together, at least most of the time, we’ll be good.“ 

Natasha raises her almost empty teacup; Bruce follows suit and seconds later, so does Clint. 

“Most of the time.  I can drink to that.”

 

…..

 

Clint’s quarters are pretty much untouched.  Regular cleanup must have been through a few times, though; the cobwebs he half-expected aren’t anywhere in evidence and his favourite mug, which he’s sure he’d left here the night of his post-Manhattan medicals, has been returned to the coffee room.

Clint has just stepped out of the shower and is still toweling his hair when the call comes through the ship-wide comm:  _Agent Barton to the Director’s office, please._  

He rolls his eyes at Natasha, who is stretched out on his bed like a cat, watching him move through the small space with her chin propped up in her hand.  Clint hasn’t spent a lot of time in school but when he did, trips to the principal’s officer were a regular occurrence -- and damn, if this doesn’t feel like that.  There are about a thousand things he’d rather do than report to Fury right now – well, a thousand and one, actually, given that Natasha is still fully dressed. 

“Great,” he says.  “Timing.  And so much for making a quiet entrance.” 

“I think we blew that with that little scene in the cafeteria,” she shrugs, her eyes following him as he pulls on one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms from his closet.  He mentally zooms in on the ‘ _we_ ‘ and gives her a lingering look, ignoring the gist of the reference. 

“Wonder if Fury’s planning on giving us a spiel about fraternization,” he muses. 

“He only called you, not me,” she points out.  “And he hasn’t said anything to me, even though I’ve been back here a dozen times.  So I’d assume not.” 

“Guess you’re right.  It’s probably just a mission debrief,” Clint concludes as he buttons up his shirt.  Guatemala _had_ been a bit of a dog’s breakfast, not least because he’d been test-driving a new handler.  

When he gets there, for the first few minutes that is in fact all it is – a debrief.  It starts off pleasantly enough, with a cup of steaming coffee waiting for him. 

“Colombian,” Hill says, her usual poker face firmly in place.  Well, whaddya know.  From her personal stash, second time ever she’s done that voluntarily.  Maria must still feel guilty about siccing the Council on him.  Maybe he can parlay that guilt into the combination for her Nespresso strong box?  Worth a try; it’s good coffee. 

For the next ten minutes or so, senior management takes in Clint’s views on the mission and on Peterson (who, interestingly, hasn’t been called in to join him).  No one tries to dispute his summary, namely that Peterson “… needs to learn how to listen.  Not without potential, but for fuck’s sake don’t use him as back-up for newbies until he figures out where he fits into a mission.” 

Clint is glad to have that over with and since he has no interest in rehashing what happened in the cafeteria, he gets up to leave.  (He doesn’t particularly want to rat on Banner and how close he came to hulking out, security risk or no; the man’s on his side, and seems to have a lid on things.)  Fury holds up his hand to stop him. 

“Before you go, Barton.” 

“Yeah?”  Clint very carefully keeps the resignation out of his voice.  Now what? 

“Now that this boat is back in the air, there’s something we need to put up.  And the sooner the better.” 

Not what he expected.  Alarm bells ring. 

“Like what?” 

“A plaque.” 

 _Oh shit.  Don’t tell me …_  

“Emm, what kind of plaque did you have in mind, sir?” 

Fury is not fooled for a minute.  Clint isn’t exactly surprised; he doesn’t really do disingenuousness well, at least not for people who know him as a calculating, cold-blooded killer.  Fury’s reply carries more than a tinge of reproach for the attempt. 

“The kind you put up to commemorate dead colleagues, Barton.” 

The Director does tactful about as well as Clint does disingenuous; there isn’t really anything Clint feels like saying in response to that, and so he doesn’t.  Instead, he swallows the bile that threatens to rise in his throat and waits for the other shoe to drop.  Fury doesn’t ever throw out this kind of thing on its own; there’s always more.  Sure enough. 

“And I think it would be a good idea for _you_ to be the one to hang it up.” 

 _What the …_   Now Clint really is speechless, his mind a tornado of emotions, few of which he can put a name to, but _anger_ is quickly taking top spot. 

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t …” 

With a quick side-glance at Hill, who’s gone uncharacteristically quiet, Fury growls his response. 

“I knew you wouldn’t like it, Barton.  But you need to own the shit that went down here, without wallowing in the blame.  We know what Loki did to you, and this’ll show everyone that Hill and I have your back -- fuck the Council and their dumbass investigation.  Besides, this is a S.H.I.E.L.D. matter.  We honour our own, the dead _and_ the living.” 

It’s one of the longest speeches Clint has ever heard Fury deliver, and that in itself gives him pause.  He’s still not happy about the idea, but the strategist in him can sure see the logic.  Maybe in time, he’ll see the wisdom, too.  

And so he nods, like the soldier he is, short and precise -- the best he can do for now, he hasn’t got any words -- and relaxes into _at ease_ position to await further orders. Fury taps a comm line to his assistant, asking her to make a ship-wide announcement for people to come to the bridge, “at nineteen hundred hours, all personnel not needed for flying operations.” 

Clint still doesn’t like it, but this way at least Natasha and Banner will be there.  Maybe Steve, if he’s onboard.  Be good to have the backup. 

“One more thing,” Fury says, and his voice is curiously gentle.  “You may want to have a look at the thing before you go out there, Barton.” 

Hill gives him a look that borders on the sympathetic.  Like he really needs to look at the list?  But maybe if he spends some time with the names now, by nineteen hundred the thing will just be a metal object.  _Yeah, right._

Clint goes over to where Fury is pointing – a large, flat object wrapped in cloth is leaning against the wall in a corner; he picks it up and takes it over to the desk to unwrap.  It’s heavy as shit, the kind of brass artefact designed to pay homage to the helicarrier’s distant nautical heritage; it’ll stick out like a sore thumb against all the tech on the bridge.  The polished letters stand in relief against a darker background and the whole thing shimmers greenish-gold _.  Not a tinge of blue._ Maybe that’s the point? 

Hill steps up silently behind him as Clint’s fingers start to brush across the names:  _Aaron, S.; Al-Mahmoud, K.; Bayer, M.; Benson, J.; Brzinski, D.; Charles; A.; Chowdhury, S.; Collins, J.; Davidson, P.; …_  

He stops cold as he feels Fury’s one-eyed stare like a physical thing.  Back, and again his fingers glide across.  The whole list this time.  Name after name.  It doesn’t change, doesn’t grow.  

From the start, again:  _Aaron, S.; Al-Mahmoud, K.; Bayer, M.; Benson, J.; Brzinski, D.; Charles; A.; Chowdhury, S.; Collins, J.; Davidson, P. …_  

He checks again, stabbing his index finger on each name as if to convince his eyes; Hill’s breath hisses in his ears.  This is news to her, as well.

_Collins, J.  Davidson, P._

Finally, Fury speaks. 

 “I had two of the damn things made.  Got definite confirmation this morning that this is the one we should use.  There’s no mistake.” 

Clint swallows, nods slowly and picks the plaque up, weighing it in his hands.  

It doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. 

 

 

 


	5. Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson lives. Clint copes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I honestly thought this was done; then a post-Manhattan Coulson turned up in _Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D._ (Remember back when I wrote Chapter 4, having Coulson _not-be-dead_ was considered a “fix-it”...) 
> 
> Working on this chapter has been like standing on shifting sands, and so I decided to settle it in the small cracks, filling in some things left open, those unexplained gaps. Much of this will without doubt be overtaken by more revelations -- but like Phil Coulson’s memory, thoughts and conversations are shards of time and space; you may see a picture only when you step back far enough.
> 
> This is a bit angstier than the other chapters, but _Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D._ is not exactly a fluff fest, and _The Winter Soldier_ looks like it’s going to send us down some dark alleys. 
> 
> Warning: chapter addresses issues of mind control and victimization. And a spoiler alert for the later episodes of Season One of _Agents of SHIELD_ , starting with "A Magical Place".
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my dear friend **Runawaymetaphor**. She knows why.

….. 

 

_Early Autumn_

 

 _(So this is how a pinned butterfly feels.)_  

 

Clint’s first reaction when he hears that Phil Coulson is not in fact dead, is relief. 

Not the kind of relief, though, that you might feel when you watch a burning house, and the friend you thought was inside texts you from a bar across town. That kind of relief is simple and easy, and Clint’s life doesn’t lend itself to _simple and easy._   

No, the relief he feels is a momentary, heady feeling that maybe, _somehow_ , this single death-that-wasn’t could erase the dozens of others that are carved into his ledger.  

But that’s bullshit, of course.   And perhaps unfortunately, Clint isn’t big on self-delusion, either.   

The eyes of the people staring at him as he holds up the plaque only confirm what he already knows: That the list of names on it is still longer by sixty-eight than it should be, and that weighing the thousands who survived against the hundreds who didn’t works a lot better in theory than in practice.   

The facts are there in his hands, neatly cast in bronze. 

Plus, this is S.H.I.E.L.D., where life and death are concepts that are at best relative, and whatever Coulson’s resurrection might mean, it sure as hell isn’t to provide absolution for Clint Barton’s sins.  So all things considered, _relief_ lasts about a third of the way through the memorial ceremony -- up to the moment when Fury starts reading all the names on that good damn plaque out loud. 

Clint loses it somewhere around the D’s, but luckily – in a manner of speaking – he’s had a childhood’s worth of practice in slowing his breathing and turning to stone when what he really wants to do is scream.  (Exposing your guts, he learned at the hands of his father, just leads to harder blows and smarter targeting.) He manages to relax his hands just before his nails dig into his palm and wreck his aim for a week. 

His next reaction, which is to feel like crap about the first, is even more short-lived. Clint has far more substantial things to be concerned about than _feelings about his own feelings_ ; therein lies the road to emotional masturbation, and who the hell has time for that.  

So by the time the ceremony is over, he’s on to reaction number three, best characterized as an irresistible desire to smash Nick Fury’s face in.   _The heel of the thumb creates a satisfying crunch when you use it to drive a guy’s nose into his brain …_  

Of course, the last thing Clint needs is another round with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s psych team. (“Can you describe that image in more detail, Agent Barton?  How did it make you _feel_?”) As long as nobody figures out a way to put the pictures in his head on YouTube he should be okay, but he bites down on his imagination anyway. 

The gathering takes a while to break up.  Clint makes no move to join the general movement towards the open area on the bridge, where Doreen has set up some morale-building refreshments.  (Exactly how memorial services are supposed to bring out an appetite has always escaped him, anyway.) 

Natasha scrutinizes him suspiciously, no doubt reading his mind like a pie chart: _Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye.  Currently composed of one-sixth grief, one-sixth crushing guilt and two-thirds homicidal rage._  

“You’re having another Loki fantasy, aren’t you?  Or else you’re wallowing again.” 

Frankly, Clint is still feeling a little punchy from the near miss with Banner and … well. Let’s just say, he’s had better days, even within the last three months, and those sure as hell haven’t been a picnic.  

“Wallowing? Says she, who took on a whole fucking alien army over an imaginary _red ledger_?” 

Natasha’s eyes narrow; she’s probably calculating whether she should just ignore him or take him on. But she has put up with his shit for some time now and probably deserves better, even from someone for whom self-analysis and target practice are pretty much the same thing. He puts a hand on her arm in mute apology. 

“But no, I’m not wallowing, and I’m not fantasizing about killing Loki this time.” 

Natasha, Clint knows from experience, will do whatever it takes to make him spill and he should probably do so before Rogers -- who’s been pacing back and forth like a caged lion since that list was read -- comes over to let off some steam of his own. (Whoever thinks that Captain America is a sweetheart, has never seen him when he’s seriously pissed off and all that righteousness comes pouring out through a balled fist.) 

“I mean, seriously, Tash. What the fuck did Fury think he was doing?  Lying to everybody like that.  Where’s he been keeping Coulson, and why?  That doesn’t bother you?” 

“Of course it does,” Natasha says, and Clint can tell from her tone that it’s not just because a secret the size of Phil Coulson managed to escape her notice. “Maria is pretty unhappy too. On a number of levels.” 

She points with her chin towards the command station, where the Director and his Deputy are engaged in what diplomats would call _a free and frank discussion_ , which involves the latter’s hands on her hips and the former scowling so hard his eye patch has dislodged a little. 

For a moment, Clint actually feels a twinge of sympathy with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Number Two. Relations between Hill and Fury have never been warm and fuzzy, and everything to do with the Avengers Initiative seems to result in a sharpening of the pitchforks on both sides. But this thing … this goes way beyond the usual _need-to-know, you-don’t-have-the-right-level_ crap that Fury pulls on all of them on a daily basis. 

Fuck it. Sometimes, when you want a question answered, the best way is just to ask.  And so Clint decides to go for it, still itching for someone to throttle but using his words, like a good boy.  He walks over to Fury and Hill, closely followed by Natasha in full damage control mode. 

“Director, _Sir_.  Where the hell _is_ Coulson, and why haven’t you told anyone that he wasn’t dead?” 

Hill looks up sharply and opens her mouth, and Clint fully expects a rebuke, something about not disrupting an Official Conversation.  But obviously she wants the answer to that question more than she values protocol, so what comes out is unexpected support. 

“Just what I’ve been asking myself, Director.   _Sir._ ” 

The audience is growing, what with Steve now striding over.  Indignation plus enhanced hearing – privacy never stood a chance. His hands are in his pockets, but Clint can see that they’re balled into fists. 

“Me too. _Sir._ ” 

Natasha says nothing, but she crosses her arms and dials her stare up to _praying mantis._  

Now, Nick Fury never appreciates being pushed or cornered and with the odds at four against one (three of them Avengers) his reply pulls no punches. 

“You’ve all seen the surveillance tapes, I’m sure, even though you’re not supposed to have access. Stark would have seen to that. So you saw exactly what Loki did to Coulson. He suffered massive chest trauma, entry and exit, and flat-lined right outside the detention cell. “ 

Steve just nods; Natasha’s eyes flick over to Clint as they both remember where he himself had been heading when she stopped him.  Clint punches down the snarling ‘what ifs’ and focuses on Fury’s narrative, looking for the inevitable gaps. 

“The medics managed to restart his heart, eventually, but it required extensive repairs. We had him on life support for over eleven weeks, while trying to fix the damage Loki’s spear had done.” 

Fury glares at Clint, as if this whole thing was somehow his fault.  _(Wasn’t it?)_  

“And it wasn’t just the chest wound. Barton knows better than anybody what that weapon does to a person’s mind.  We didn’t know where Coulson’s mind might have gone, so we had to keep him under observation and his location secret, in case the Council got wind of another potentially compromised agent.” 

That last bit is clearly directed at Hill, who flinches a little and avoids Clint’s eyes. The Council hadn’t hesitated to order the death of millions to avert the Chitauri invasion; the death of a single man wouldn’t merit a moment’s consideration. 

It sure is plausible. Yes, Phil Coulson _hadn’t_ been stabbed by just any old weapon _._  And yes, Clint does know better than anyone -- with the exception of Erik Selvig -- just what that means.  Coulson might as well have swallowed the tesseract.  

There’s something else the Director isn’t saying, though, Clint can just _taste_ it.  Wouldn’t be the first time Fury has used the Council as a red herring. 

Fury is still talking and Clint shakes off the sudden blue chill, forcing himself to focus on what the man is actually saying, as opposed to on what he’s not. 

“His brain, when we eventually got his heart started again, was shown to react to things. Noise.  Light.  His name. Enough to convince me there was a chance Phil Coulson was still in there, even though the neurologist doctor kept urging me to pull the plug, for various reasons.” 

Steve is even less versed in medical chatter than Clint is. 

“So what does all this mean?” 

Fury emits a sigh that could mean anything or nothing. 

“We still need to do some more work to get his mind back to normal.” 

In Clint’s case, ‘ _cognitive recalibration’_ involved a major concussion.  What would it require in the case of death, by the same implement that stole his mind? He looks briefly over to where Natasha is holding herself curiously still, and cuts to the chase. 

“Like what? Rearranging his brain?” 

“As I said, we didn’t know what the after-effects of the spear would be.  In Coulson’s case, Loki didn’t stick around to put anything into his head, so we had to keep his neurons active, to stop them from being potentially wiped out. We did that, we succeeded, he survived. But there’s some trauma, which our doctors are currently trying to reduce.” 

 _Keep his neurons active?_   Clint knows a shitty euphemism when he hears one, especially when the next sentence has the word “trauma” in it.  

“You kept him _awake_?” he says. “For how long?” 

Hill swallow as she works through the implications, but doesn’t get the chance to say anything. Steve gets there first. 

“All the surgery you mentioned. Everything you did to keep him alive. He was conscious throughout?” 

Steve’s eyes go far away for a moment, but they come back to settle on Fury, hard and focused. 

“The last time I saw something like that, keeping someone awake through what must have been horrific pain, it was HYDRA experimenting on a friend of mine. I’d hoped never to see anything like that again.  So what …” 

Natasha puts her hand on his arm to stop him.  When she speaks, it’s in a curiously flat tone. 

“So now you’re trying to change his memories,” she says.  “Are you using Red Room techniques on him?”  

“We’re giving him pleasant memories,” Fury says.  

It’s not exactly a ‘no’. Judging by the way Hill shifts her stance, she has noticed that too.  

Steve, who has never heard of the Red Room, just frowns, trying to gauge by the others’ reaction whether he should be more concerned than he already is.  

Fury’s elaboration is not helping, but he doesn’t sound defensive when he gives it. 

“Like I said, we had no choice, and we’re trying to limit the damage.  Right now, Agent Coulson thinks is on vacation in Tahiti.”

 

…..

 

_Sunshine and warmth._

_Palm trees, swaying in the breeze. Azure waters and the sound of waves lapping at an opalescent beach.  The laughter of children, carried by gentle winds._

_Beauty and peace._

_So far from the alarms and the smell of burning wires, the shouts, the fear and the chaos of the bridge. From the pain burning in his chest, the agony of breathing.  Loki’s sneering face. The recoil of that weapon. Fury, yelling; his own whispered response._

_Oh yes, Phil Coulson remembers. He remembers it all. But he doesn’t really want to. Not in the face of all this beauty._

_He turns his face to the sun, breathes in the scent of a thousand bougainvillea blossoms.  It’s been weeks, but Phil knows that after that injury he did need some R &R, so he refuses to feel guilty._

_Suddenly, a disturbing thought: Did Hill sign off on this? Rehab and time off is one thing, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Accounting Department isn’t known for picking up the tab for luxury vacations._

_His eyes fly open._

_He’s not in Tahiti anymore._

_Hospital.  He’s in a hospital.  The light is harsh, not warm.  There’s beeping, and things attached to his head, his fingers._

_A S.H.I.E.L.D. medical facility. Not one he recognizes, but the set-up is familiar._

_How …_

_A form in white is moving around the edge of Phil’s vision.  His mind tries to catch thoughts, elusive things like fireflies; his tongue tries to form words._

_“Wha’ happened?  How …”_

_His throat feels raw.  Screaming?  No, of course not. This is Medical. Tubes, then.  Breathing tubes.  He remembers not breathing._

_The form approaches on soft feet. A face, peering at him through the fog._

_“Welcome back, Agent Coulson. The Quinjet that brought you back from Tahiti hit a rough spot and you suffered some head trauma,” the nurse? Doctor? Explains._

_“Given the residual issues from the chest wound you sustained before your rehab, this new trauma resulted in temporary disruption of brain function.  There will be some memory loss, which should however disappear over time.”_

_The man’s voice turns gentle, almost pleading._

_“What do you remember, Agent Coulson, starting with when you went after Loki?”_

_For the first time, Phil completely understands what people mean when they talk about ‘dredging their memory banks’. Worse, he feels like he hasn’t exercised his vocal chords for weeks, and his head ..._

_Must have been some concussion._

_“Loki had trapped Thor. I thought I saw him, but he wasn’t … wasn’t real.  Then I remember seeing …”_

_The tip of the spear. coming out of his chest. (So this is how a pinned butterfly feels.)_

_He tries to catch the memory of Fury, bent over him, asking him, no,_ ordering _him to stop dying.  His own voice:_

 _‘_ I’m clocking out here, boss’.  

‘Not an option.’ 

‘No, it’s okay.’

_But it’s not okay.  Death is not an option.  It rings in his head, like a mantra, a memory forged in blood and steel:_

_Not an option.  Not an option.  Not an option._

_He shakes his head, to ward off that voice; bad idea.._

_“What else do you remember, Agent Coulson?”_

_He shakes his head again, this time to try and stop the ringing, reaches for the next memory.  It floats like a butterfly, blown in on a soft warm wind, lands._

_Much better:  Sunshine, the scent of salt water and exotic flowers in the breeze._

_“Rehab, in Tahiti.  Lovely place.  Almost magical.”_

_….._

The short flight from the helicarrier back to Manhattan passes in silence, with each of the Quinjet’s occupants lost in their own thoughts.  Neither Steve nor Natasha seem to feel like talking, and Clint uses piloting as an excuse to remain quiet.  

By silent agreement they all head to Clint’s apartment, stopping at the corner store for a supply of beer and a semi-decent bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for Natasha. 

Once upstairs, Steve plays with the keyboard by the door, the one that sets up the various security features S.H.I.E.L.D. provides to its operatives in their private accommodations.  His lips move as if he were creating imaginary sound effects, like a video game (if he knows what that is). 

“Do I even want to know who you’re aiming for?”  

Clint flips open one of the beers and hands it to Steve, who looks a little self-conscious and pulls back his hands.   

“I wish I knew,” Steve says.  “Fury? Although I guess we should be happy that Coulson survived.  He seemed … _seems_ like an okay guy.” 

Natasha opens her wine and pours, foregoing her usual comment about chipped glasses, screw tops and the end of civilization.

“He is, once you get to know him.  Don’t let the suit and the hero worship thing creep you out.” 

“He got me into S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Clint says, “and then spent a couple years making sure Hill and I didn’t kill each other.  He’s kind of like the lube that makes everything work.  No idea how he does it. Half the time you don’t even notice he’s there, or what he’s doing, but when he’s been somewhere, stuff just … works better, you know.” 

“So you’d think that the fact that Agent Coulson wasn’t dead would have been a major morale boost for S.H.I.E.L.D. at a difficult time, no?  Not to mention …” 

Steve doesn’t finish the sentence, but the way he looks at Clint it’s pretty sure what he means, and yeah, Clint can’t really argue with that.  He’d still have felt like shit about all the things he did under Loki’s control – still does – but there’d have been a bit less. 

Natasha nods on his behalf. 

“Which begs the question why Fury kept Coulson’s survival hidden for so long.” 

“Was it because he didn’t want to face the music after that little card trick of his?” 

Clint considers Steve’s suggestion briefly – it’s not like he hasn’t mulled that particular question over in his head for the better part of the day. 

“I doubt it. Strategic value, plus hindsight proved him right.  Coulson would have agreed, probably would have put him up to it, if he hadn’t died first. You do what’s necessary.” 

Steve gives a slightly exasperated snort and shakes his head, and Clint and Natasha exchange a quick glance.  What will Captain America do, the day he really comes to understand that truth and virtue in S.H.I.E.L.D. are always clothed in shades of grey?  

Steve’s jaw is working, grinding away, chewing on a bone he is obviously not into letting go. Suddenly he nods – small little bobs of the head, like he’s agreeing with himself. 

“Fury called Coulson his ‘one good eye.’  Maybe he couldn’t let him die because Coulsonis _… his friend_? And he couldn’t tell _us_ , because he would have had to admit something he considers to be a weakness.”

Steve’s eyes flick from Clint to Natasha, looking for signs of approval.  It’s not a bad theory as these things go; in their business, friendship is often considered a liability.  Besides, Nick Fury sure isn’t the sentimental sort; as the Red Room drilled into Natasha, _Love is for Children_. 

But if Clint has learned anything, it’s that all that is complete bullshit. He only has to think of Natasha, who is working through her own thoughts in silence.  All the things they’ve been to each other over the years, all the times they’ve pulled out all the stops, including her standing up to Loki so she could drag Clint Barton’s sorry ass back from the gates of hell … Coulson himself had known just how to pull Natasha off that interrogation in Moscow, how to get her into that fight. And it wasn’t about tactics. 

Steve, Bruce and Thor, and all the various and different pains they carry; hell, even Tony Stark, whose palladium-plated heart is pretty much pure gold inside, however scratched and dented -- they all know it too, Clint is pretty sure. Having someone you can trust, not wanting them to die -- that is _not_ weakness. It’s what gives you strength. 

Yes, Nick Fury knows that friendship has its value – even if only as a weapon of war. Clint shakes his head. 

“No. If it was useful for him to admit it, he would.  And did.” 

Natasha seems to be on the same track. 

“Fury is a practical man. I’m guessing he plans to put Coulson back to work, and wants to prevent a scene when one of us runs run into him in the coffee line-up at the Hub.” 

Clint weighs the argument; on balance, it sounds plausible.  S.H.I.E.L.D. is a secretive organization, but every pair of boots on the ground has an iceberg’s worth of admin support behind it – you can’t keep someone as well-known as Coulson hidden for long.  Steve’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t argue the point either. 

“I’m a lot more interested learning why Fury told us about the false memories he’s implanting,” Natasha continues. “He could have just told usthat Coulson really _had_ been rehabbing in Tahiti. We might even have believed him enough not to check up.” 

Perhaps Steve isn’t so naïve after all.  “Maybe he wants us to validate the story to Coulson?  Fury would know that you two, of all the people he knows, would tell Coulson that no one knew where he was.  This way, you’re likely to play along with what he believes, and confirm that Tahiti is where he was.” 

Somewhere in there may be the truth -- but there are a lot of unanswered questions, and far too many shades of grey.  (Not to mention red.)

 

_….._

_The doctor nods, but his eyes are curiously intent._

_“Good. Things are coming back, then. What do you remember hearing about the battle for New York, while you were in Tahiti?  You were in a coma while it happened, but your therapists would have talked about it.  We’re trying to connect dots here, so try and remember.”_

_Phil is stymied.  Battle?  New York? He frowns._

_“Nothing.  I …”_

_The doctor nods knowingly. His voice is firm._

_“That’s understandable. All that is secondary memory, since you weren’t there for it.  You were in a coma, after Loki’s attack.  It looks like that’s what you’ve lost then – the things you learned after you woke, and while you were in rehab.  In Tahiti.”_

_Phil is concerned.  How can he do his job, if he doesn’t …  But the doctor is ahead of him.  A good man, understands what it means to be in S.H.I.E.L.D._

_Fury hires the best._

_“Never mind, Agent, we’ll show you the tapes. Catch you up, until your neurons make the connections themselves. You will need to know everything that has happened, if you want to return to work.  I hear the Director has plans for you.”_

_He hesitates a fraction._

_“You do want to go back to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., don’t you?”_

_Phil gives the matter some thought. Agents have handed in their badges for injuries far less traumatic, been given a handshake and a decent pension. He could go to …_

_He tries to remember the name, her name, the place she went.  (A discussion he had with Pepper Potts?  Why does he remember the discussion, but not what … who … it was about?  There was a woman …)_

_S.H.I.E.L.D.  is the one constant in his life, his foundation, his bridge to who he is. Leaving?_

_Not an option._

_“Yes.  Show me.  Teach me.  I want to remember.”_

_And so Phil watches clip after endless clip, amateur and CCTV footage of the most stirring heroics imaginable: Captain America in action -- he lingers over those ones, even replays a few when the nurse is out of the room. Watching, learning, being awed by the impossible that no longer is._

_Thor and Iron Man, flying. Suddenly, he remembers his discussion with Thor.  The genial-yet-fierce God of Thunder, who had called him ‘Son of Coul,’ and talked about Bilgesnipes._

_He can practically feel the synapses firing now in his brain, neural pathways being knitted together. Things come back, things he remembers, and thus doesn’t need to see:  The engine, burning. Chaos on the bridge. Agents. Dead and dying._

_Barton’s arrows._

_Clint Barton.  So much more than a mere sharpshooter with a smart mouth, even if he’d be the last one to see that.  A general, leading an army.  How did he die? Or … did he?_

_The Hulk, so unlike his shy alter ego. A mindless beast, they’d called him, but rampaging with a purpose, just like he had in Harlem. Fury had been right, after all._

_Then, suddenly, Black Widow and Hawkeye, fighting side by side, as they had in Budapest, in Chiapas, in Abidjan. So he came back from under Loki’s thrall. How?  The human mind is an amazing thing._

_But why hadn’t he come to visit Phil in Tahiti, or now?_

_Why had none of them ever come? It’s been weeks. Months._

_Oh, well.  Probably busy, or on a mission.  S.H.I.E.L.D. is like that.  And with all that’s come to light …_

_Another vid he replays a couple of times is Maria Hill’s testimony before the Council._ A nuke against Manhattan? _The Director must have been livid. Phil smiles as he imagines Fury’s reaction.  (He can afford to smile; New York is still standing.)_

_Stark.  Who knew the man had it in him?  He probably still doesn’t know Phil’s name, would still brush him off like so much lint, but that’s okay.  There are different rules for genius, for heroes, and Stark delivered when he had to._

_Phil makes a note to tap into the Level 8 files on that nuclear strike order, though, and on the Council’s decision to reinstate Barton. Something tells him the two issues may be connected. The Council is not known for gratuitous altruism; they would have wanted a scapegoat, a diversion, and Barton was a sitting duck. The whole thing smells like a horse trade.  Fury is good at those._

_Yes, Phil is starting to think for himself again. The dots are connecting. He can sense it and it feels good, even if the pictures that emerge aren’t pretty._

_Fury has promised him a new assignment when his rehab is complete.  Hill should be there with the details soon.  He’ll miss Barton and Romanoff, of course, but it will be fun to break in a new team, to learn new people and raise them to their potential._

_Phil wishes there was a way to feed memories directly into his brain to speed things up, though, so he can close up the gaps faster and get back to work sooner.  There’s a lot to take in and he tires easily; a shortcut would be nice. He taps the screen for more._

_At least his memories of Tahiti are clear; he would really hate to lose those.  It’s truly a magical place._

 

…..

 

_Winter/Early Spring_

 

Word of Coulson’s new team has been trickling through S.H.I.E.L.D.’s firewalls. Elusive, they are, mobile, touching ground only rarely.  News of an alien virus, alien artifacts, a new form of super soldier, like the ones Stark had chased. Background noise to Clint’s own assignments.  

Life moves on, and lives like theirs move quickly.  He’d missed Coulson at the Hub by a few days once; quite a ruckus, that was. He’d had a brief chat with May, once, when he’d found she’d moved jobs, but she’d been pretty closed-mouthed even for May.  Sitwell had hinted at a meeting somewhere though, all hush-hush at Coulson’s request, just a few days ago.   

So when the call came, it had been a surprise – and not.  Clint isn’t sure if it was a welcome one yet.  Too much unsaid, too many things left in the shadows, since ... 

 _Why now?_  

Coulson is already there when Clint gets to the little outdoor café, sitting in front of two beers, waiting.  After all that time, he seems eager for Clint’s company. 

Clint takes those last few steps, wondering what he should say.   He peers up at the patch of sky that’s visible between the buildings, over the top of Stark tower, where grey clouds are starting to move in. 

The café where they’d agreed to meet (neutral ground?) is a couple blocks away from Stark – no, _Avengers_ Tower. The little place had been right in Battle Central during the Chitauri invasion, closed for a long time while the city healed.  But precisely because of that, it’s become quite popular.  

To make up for their losses, the owners have been keeping the terrace open pretty much year round since, with heating lamps strategically located where the umbrellas would be in the summer.  

There have been a few unusually mild days, but now the wind is beginning to pick up, bringing colder, more seasonal air; Clint can feel it on his face.  New York is not yet done with winter. 

He pulls up a chair, metal grating on stone. 

“Storm coming.” 

It’s as good a conversational gambit as any. 

“There’s always a storm coming.”  

Coulson’s voice is its usual bland self, but there’s a new tightness around his mouth and a guarded tone in his voice that wasn’t there before.  He’s not talking about the weather. 

 _Shit._  Clint had hoped this might be easier, the first time they actually get to sit down face-to-face, after months of near misses in the field and at HQ.  

“Yeah. Lots happening these days.” 

Coulson shifts around in his seat a bit, and Clint realizes he’s maybe not the only one who feels awkward. 

“Why’d you pick this place?”  

Coulson gestures vaguely around them.  The terrace isn’t full, but there are people at more of the tables than you would think given the season, all looking up at regular intervals. 

Clint shrugs. 

“Cap likes it here. It’s open, busy but quiet. People don’t bother you. They’re too busy looking for Stark flying out of his lair.  The odds are pretty good these days too, what with their place in Malibu still out of commission.” 

Coulson nods sagely but doesn’t say anything, and so Clint adds, “Plus, one of the waitresses has her eyes on Rogers and gives us free refills on the coffee.” 

Truth is, Clint would actually have preferred coffee on a chilly day like this, but he knows a gesture when he sees one and picks up the one Phil had ordered for him. He takes a sip and clears his throat against the threatening silence.  

“Glad you called, Phil.” 

He hopes that doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels, being here with the man for whose (temporary) death he still feels responsible, regardless of what Tasha or the shrinks might say. 

“It’s been too long,” Coulson agrees, and then he smiles a little ruefully.  “Sometimes I have the feeling S.H.I.E.L.D. has been keeping us on different sides of the planet deliberately.”

 _Work.  Yes, they can talk about work._ S.H.I.E.L.D. is always a safe topic, and chances that someone’s planted a bug in the small bouquet of plastic flowers on the table are pretty remote. 

“Yeah,” Clint seizes on the topic and runs with it.  “No shit. Especially with you having your own plane like a big shot.  How’s the new team working out, anyway?  Last time I talked to May, she thought you’d all survive to Christmas, but not to invest in non-refundable presents.” 

Coulson actually cracks a smile.  

“That sounds like May. No, they’re good. They’re really good.” 

“Even Ward? Guy’s not a bad sort, but man, he needs to pull that stick out of his ass.” 

Coulson smiles again, and turns his glass around in his hands.  He’s got that little glint in his eyes, the one that tells Clint some good gossip is coming.  Some things never change; Coulson can dish with the best of them. 

“He’s been working on it. He and May ...” 

His voice drifts off, but his meaning is clear.  Clint raises an eyebrow.  Melinda May had been no stranger to post-mission adrenaline sex back in the day – hell, he’d know, wouldn’t he? – but he thought she’d moved past that, what with her issues. Plus, he’d never figured her to go for the milque-toasty sort.  Must be more to Ward than he thought.  

“Problem?” he asks. 

Coulson purses his lips. 

“No more than with you and Romanoff.  At least they got it out of their system without feeding years of illegal speculation and gambling on government premises.” 

Clint raises his hands in surrender.  Fair cop that, really. Coulson tips his beer to him and changes the subject 

“They also gave me a couple of rising stars from R & D.  Fitz and Simmons.  They’re not Stark and Banner, but they are very, very good at what they do.” 

Clint hasn’t heard of Simmons, but the other name rings a bell. 

“Fitz – is he the guy who designed that grappling arrowhead?  I owe him a beer.” 

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Coulson smiles fondly.  “He and Simmons are desperate to meet one of the Avengers, you know.” 

Clint snorts. _Yeah, right._ People lining up to meet him – that’ll be the day.  (Last time that happened, he was with Carson’s Travelling Wonders, and look how that turned out.)  But Coulson is not so easily deterred. 

“So is the new girl, Skye. You’d like her, Barton. She reminds me a little of you, when first you came in -- no respect for authority or protocol, and talks back a lot. Prettier than you, though.” 

It’s Clint’s turn to tip his glass.  _Touch_ _é_ _._  

“Where’d you find her? Don’t remember her coming through S.H.I.E.L.D. training.” 

“She found _us_.  Beyond that, it’s need to know, I’m afraid.” 

Clint shrugs and takes a deep draught of his beer, letting it run down his throat. Par for the course; secrecy is what you sign up for when you join a secret organization and if Coulson says he doesn’t need to know, he doesn’t. (Stark would be on the next terminal within seconds, hacking away just on principle, with Natasha handing him a USB stick.) 

But Coulson clearly feels like he has to make amends, for what under the circumstances could easily be taken as a lack of trust.  Neither of them is particularly good at filling uncomfortable silences with small talk, though, so the next thing comes out pretty awkward. 

“What about you? Keeping busy with the Avengers Initiative?” 

Clint shrugs. 

“Not really. Been working mostly assignments. Saving-the-world level shit doesn’t happen too often.” 

“You should be grateful.” 

“Maybe. Wondered why Nat and I didn’t get called in when Stark had his argument with the Mandarin, though, or when those elf things tried to put the mean time back into Greenwich.” 

Clint snorts briefly. “Although I did get asked to bat cleanup for that one.  Some overgrown iguana that crawled out of a spatial rift and threatened to eat the Queen’s corgis.” 

Coulson nods sagely and Clint stops for a moment to signal the waiter for two more beers. Things are loosening up. 

“So what’s your official mission? Or is that need to know, too?” 

Coulson considers the question, no doubt running through his terms of reference to check for the _don’t tell Barton_ tag. There doesn’t seem to be one. 

”We’re trying to stop technologies - or people - that could put the world into another situation where the Avengers would be needed.  It’s essentially a game of whack-a-mole, with higher stakes and better mallets.” 

“Sounds like fun. You need an archer?” Clint can’t quite keep the longing out of his voice.  “Not that I’m bored, exactly, but fact is, the Council still doesn’t trust me.  And after that shit with Loki, who can blame them?” 

He’s looking for a reaction from Coulson, but it’s not happening.  The man has a faraway, distracted look in his eyes -- unusual for someone normally so sharp.  The look could mean anything or nothing, and so Clint decides just to put it on the table, that thing he’s been wanting to ask ever since he learned that Coulson had come out of his coma.  (It’s been a long few months.) 

“Would _you_?  Trust me, I mean?” 

Clint peers at Coulson over the rim of his beer glass, to gauge his reaction. It’s out now and can’t be taken back, not that he’d want to.  It actually feels good just having asked the question. 

Coulson, of course, is not stupid and will know what he’s really being asked. But his answer, for all that, takes Clint by surprise. 

“Trust _you_?  Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I? Certainly more than I trust myself.” 

For a moment Clint wonders whether that’s supposed to be a compliment of some sort, but Coulson isn’t one to say stuff without every word meaning something.  So it doesn’t take Clint very long to figure out that this whole thing -- Coulson asking to meet, after months of silence, that awkward two-steps-forward-one-step-back dance they’ve been doing since they sat down – none of that is about Clint Barton. 

 _It’s about Phil Coulson._  

And that last comment, well, that’s basically an open door for Clint to barge right through. Coulson may as well have issued an embossed invitation. 

“Let me guess. You found out about Tahiti, then?” (Oh, and fuck you, Nick Fury, and the secrets you feed on.) 

Coulson’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and his voice drops a couple of degrees in temperature. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready for the guests to show up yet. 

“You _knew_?” 

Clint doesn’t flinch. He’s here now. 

“Yep. Also been told not to tell _you_.  Not like I had an opportunity to lie to you about it though, is it.“ 

He watches Coulson take that in.  It’s not as if he’d made any move to seek Clint out since his resurrection; he seemed to have been happy enough to disappear into one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bombproof stovepipes. 

Finally, Coulson nods; they’re good again. 

“Fair enough. So what exactly _do_ you know?  What did they tell _you_?” 

“That your recovery was pretty traumatic.  Fury said they gave you memories of a pleasant beach holiday to help you get over it.” 

“ _Fury_ said?”  

“The man himself. Implied that we shouldn’t mention it to you, because it would go against the whole point of the exercise, that you’d get traumatized right back.” 

“So why mention it to me now?” Coulson is back to his usual bland inquisitiveness, which Clint is pretty sure right now is an act. 

“You kind of brought it up, that whole _trusting yourself_ thing? Wild guess, you want to talk about it. Whatever _it_ is.” 

Coulson does that lip-pinching thing again.  Maybe he’s forgotten that Clint, even though he’s mostly a shooter, has had some spy training?  For a guy who’s been called out, he recovers quickly though. 

“Yes and no, I guess.” He leans forward now, trying not to look eager.  “What else do you know?” 

Clint’s antennae start to buzz. 

“What else _is_ there to know?” 

Coulson slumps back. 

“That’s Level Ten,” he says flatly, but this time Clint isn’t buying.  

“Bullshit. You have a right to know stuff about your own life, and to talk about it if you feel like it.  And you obviously do.  Your life is _your_ secret to keep, not anyone else’s.  So if you want to talk, talk.” 

Coulson’s brief smile almost reaches his eyes.  “You and Skye would most _definitely_ hit it off.” 

Clint doesn’t allow himself to be distracted.  

“It’s why you called me, isn’t it?  So what else is there to know?” 

“Based on what I’ve pieced together, somebody has found a way to bring people back from the dead. Why or how, or how they decide whom to revive, I don’t know.  Well, we found some of the _how_ , but only a part.” 

“And the reason all this is so bloody secret is what, exactly?  Fear of over-population?”  The quasi-joke sounds lame even to Clint, and he’s grateful that Coulson ignores it. 

“Alien … technology.” Coulson falters a little, like his mind is stumbling over something. 

That doesn’t seem like such a big deal to Clint; half of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s manpower seems geared towards recovering and analyzing shit the Chitauri left behind.  Can’t have been what got Coulson so upset, especially given what his team does. 

“And they don’t exactly ask those they work on whether they want to be part of the process.” 

Clint is tempted to mention that maybe that’s because the people being worked on are, well, _dead_ , but he senses that they’re getting closer, and that this isn’t the time for smartass remarks. Sure enough, Coulson continues, staring into his beer as he does. 

“Once it got started, and I woke up, the procedure was … extremely unpleasant.   I remember asking them to let me die. _Begging_ them.  Many times. But they didn’t. And it …” he falters a little and stares into his beer.  “It was pretty awful. I assume that’s the memory they tried to erase with Tahiti.” 

Clint’s mouth goes a little dry. He’s not really the kind of guy people tend to share intimate confessions with -- and this?  This one’s a doozy.  So there has to be a point.  There’s always a point with Coulson.  

May as well get to it. 

“So why are you telling me this, Phil?”  

“You’ve been there. You know what it’s like.

 _It._  It?  Right. _It._  

“I didn’t die.” _Although I sometimes wished I had._

Not the most useful answer he could give, either.  But dammit … Coulson frowns at him, his own polite way of calling bullshit. 

“But you know what it’s like to have someone else inside your head, and make your decisions for you.”

 Oh yes, Clint does. _Don’t do that to yourself, Clint -- that was Loki_. As if that explained everything. _You had no choice, Agent Barton._

“It pretty much sucked.” 

Coulson actually manages one of his small smiles. 

“That’s an understatement.” 

For a moment, there’s silence, interrupted by the waitress who must be wondering how long two grown men can make a single glass of beer last.  It’s getting chilly, and so Clint asks for the coffee he’d wanted in the first place; Coulson, to his surprise, goes for a Scotch. The waitress disappears to fill their orders, and Coulson looks at Clint in anticipation. 

He obviously wants more. 

Clint chews his lips. There’s stuff he hasn’t been too forthcoming with for the S.H.I.E.L.D. shrinks, and that he’s only told Natasha (who needed to know).  Then again, there’s all the weeks and months he’d been beating himself up over Coulson’s death-that-wasn’t, and this is probably as a good a way as any to get rid of some of the red in that particular ledger. 

“Of the two of us, it sounds like you had the shittier deal.  During the control part, I mean.  Loki made me want what he wanted.  I didn’t fight.  Didn’t ask to be let go. I just … _did.”_  

“But you had an alien entity inside your head.” 

“I had a _megalomaniac asshole_ in my head.  His brother’s okay, alien or no.” 

Coulson waves him off. Funny that – normally he’s the detail guy.  Now that he’s started on this line of questions, he seems keen to get to the end. 

“So how did you get over it?” 

“You mean, over Loki?” 

Coulson shakes his head, almost as if he thinks Clint is being deliberately dense. (Maybe he is.) 

“Not having … a choice. Being controlled. Having your will taken away. I guess in my case they tried to paper it over with false memories, and that has now failed. How did _you_ get past it?” 

 _You had no choice, Agent Barton._ That’s what everyone’s been telling him.  _You had no choice._ An excuse, a benediction, a pat on the head.

Well, fuck that. Wish it were that easy. 

A different voice comes into Clint’s mind, unbidden -- a shard of a memory, something he’d once overheard, perhaps?  _T_ _he horrors -- they are a part of you, and they will never go away ..._ Whoever said that sure knew a thing or two about what’s true, more than any shrink ever could. 

Clint grinds his teeth. This is getting pretty personal. He looks up at the sky, but there’s no answer in the clouds, and he fucking owes Phil.  

“Truth? I haven’t. Gotten past it, I mean. I’m responsible for the deaths of some good people.”  _Including yours._   “You don’t forget that, and you sure as hell don’t get over it. No matter what Psych says.” 

“But you’re okay. You’re functioning. Compared to what I hear of Dr. Selvig.” 

 _Says who?_  

“Selvig’s an untrained civilian.” 

Clint doesn’t quite manage to keep the sympathetic contempt out of his snort. 

“Plus, I got to kill things right after.  A _lot_ of things.  Knocked Loki off his sled, and thanks to JARVIS, I got to watch what Banner … the Hulk did to him.  I’m a shallow guy, so I guess that was pretty cathartic.  I’ll send you the video, if you like.” 

He pauses, but only briefly. 

“But the truth is, I still have nightmares.  They’re getting fewer, but they’re still there.  Ultimately, you gotta take each moment as it comes.  And deal.” 

Maybe that wasn’t the most coherent of speeches, and it seems like Coulson was hoping for more, but that’s all Clint has got for now.  

He searches the other man’s face to gauge his reaction, sees nothing but disappointment. What did he expect – a magic bullet? The Clint Barton version of _Tahiti, Mach Seven_? Maybe it’s time for a question. 

“So. Tell me, Phil. Do you regret being alive?” 

Coulson looks at him, puzzled by what may sound a bit like a change in topic. 

“The choice they took from you.  That was to die, right? You wanted to die. And now you’re alive. So tell me.  Would you take that back?” 

That question doesn’t seem to have occurred to Phil, and he frowns for a while in silence – maybe he’s running through some of the things he’s done since he woke up. Clint hopes, for Phil’s sake, that the ledger comes out positive, but given what the man has said about his new team, it’s almost bound to. 

“No,” he says finally. “I wouldn’t.  There are things to be done.” 

Clint leans back in his chair and suppresses a grin as he takes the cup from the waitress, who has appeared out of nowhere.  Steve really should make a move; she seems sweet and decent, just what the good Captain needs. 

“See?” he says. “There you are, then.” 

Coulson actually looks a little bit pissed off, like he’s been dismissed or something, and so Clint explains. 

“You got screwed over. No argument here. That whole Tahiti thing? Pretty good indication that someone wasn’t playing entirely for the home team, when they did what they did. But you came out the other end, and that has to count for something.” 

Phil doesn’t look like he’s ready to buy it, but he came here for a spot of Hawkeye wisdom, such as it is, and that’s what he’s getting.  Take it or leave it, especially now that Clint thinks he’s figured it out. 

“Like Natasha said, we’re dealing with magic and monsters here, nothing we’ve been trained for. Whoever _they_ are, Fury or whoever else – they shouldn’t expect you to be grateful for what they did to you, even if you’re okay with being alive now. So kick ‘em in the balls when you get the chance.  And in the meantime, you better keep doing what you’ve been doing.  Because this stuff?” 

He gestures vaguely towards the darkening sky. 

“It’s not going away.” 

Coulson seems to have determined something, because he suddenly nods and lifts his Scotch vaguely in Clint’s direction.  Here’s a small smile starting to bloom in the corner of his eyes. 

“I assume you’re right about that, Clint.  None of this will ever go away. But then, I guess, neither are we.” 

Phil takes a deep breath.  

“Thanks for that. I needed a bit of a different perspective. You see, it’s not just me. I’ll need to have this conversation again at some point. With members of my team.”

 _Ah._  Of course.  All coming clear now.  Coulson isn’t the sort that would have this kind of talk -- about seriously personal shit -- just about himself, closed book that he is.  Or would he?  Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it.  Because it really _was_ useful, for Clint, too. 

Clint sips his coffee, mentally following the caffeine as it courses through his veins. Nat always makes fun of him when he says that, but if you don’t have any super serum to rely on, you have to take what you can get. 

They’re sitting in silence when the first raindrops hit.  Clint cocks an eyebrow at Coulson, but neither makes the obvious suggestion to take things inside.  Maybe they’re done, anyway. 

“Looks like that storm’s here,” Clint says. 

Coulson lifts his eyes to the grey and heavy Manhattan sky, to that spot above Stark Tower, from which not so very long ago an alien army poured forth in the name of the God of Lies. 

“Could be worse,” he shrugs dismissively, even as the drops start to splatter on the formica table top. 

Clint follows his former handler’s gaze, squinting a little to keep the water out of his eyes. 

“Yep,” he says, “it sure could.”  

He breaks into a small, slow grin.  

“Could be snowing.”

 

 


End file.
